The Prince Demised
by Maggie Moore
Summary: (AU) There has been a death in the Fellowship. At the end of a war, something goes wrong and a member is lost. The remaining members discover that healing is a slow process, if healing comes at all. Have tissues. No slash. NOT a Leggo fic! -Now complete-
1. Prologue

The Prince Demised

Prologue

Title: _The Prince Demised_

Chapters: Eleven

Category: Angst/AU

Rating: PG13 for dark story line, some gruesome imagery, and slight suicidal content.

Summary: There has been a death in the Fellowship. At the end of a war, something goes wrong and a member is lost. The remaining members discover that healing is a slow process, if healing comes at all.

Slash: None! Sorry to all you pervy hobbit fanciers, but this little fic is (at least meant to be) slash-free. Read it in whatever way you wish, but I wrote it with the intention for it to be in character, which means no one is homosexual. Don't like it? Well then don't let the theoretical and ill-tempered door hit you on your way out. Thank you.

~*~

Mae Govannen! This is an A/U Angst fic I decided to write one day. If you don't hate me by the end of it, you're my new best friend. I hated me for _wanting to write this fic. It made me depressed just to think about._

I got the idea for this story a little less than a year ago and I've been working on it on and off over the past 8 or so months. Part of me is sad to let my baby out into the world on its own, but another part is greatly relieved to have it done. I hope you enjoy reading it, it's been a joy to write and I'm very proud of it. I shall post one chapter every week (most likely on Fridays or Saturdays) until the entire fic is up.

Please feel free to review and/or email me with any comments you may have. I really do want to know your opinion of this. I'd like to take this time now to give a BIG thank you to my wonderful Beta reader, Arenyn Cai. THANK YOU!

WARNING: I made myself cry on numerous occasions during the creation of this. Have a box of tissues at the ready. You have been warned. Now enjoy! ^_^


	2. Chapter One: Ernil i Pheriannath

The Prince Demised

Chapter One: Ernil i Pheriannath

**March 25, 1419******

'What a battle!' Gimli thought to himself. He examined his axe as he walked along the ruin of the battlefield. 'Notched.' He shook his head. 'Those wretched Orcs are thick skinned, and their armor can almost rival dragon scales.' He ran his finger gently along the blunted edge. 'Though not even a coat of Mithril could have saved them from my axe!' Gimli chuckled as he dropped his weapon in its sheath at his side and continued to walk slowly through the battlements. 

Aragorn had ordered a short search for survivors among the dead, and Gimli volunteered to scout out the frontal area. Smoke was still rising from the ground around him and mounds of Orc and troll bodies were everywhere. 'I don't know how I'll see anything alive amid all the dead.' He let out a sigh as he looked down at one of the many mounds that covered the land. A large troll lay facedown on the ground, covering several bodies. Gimli paused and debated whether or not he should move the massive beast to check for survivors underneath. He shook his head and started moving on. Nothing could have survived the crushing weight of a full-grown troll. 

As he walked past, he saw a man lying nearby, his leg bent under the body. Gimli approached him and bent over, looking closely for signs of life. He smiled when he saw the soft rise and fall of the man's chest. The Silver Tree painted on the breast of his armor showed his heritage to that of Gondor. Gimli tapped the side of the man's face gently and called to him.

"Good soldier of Gondor, can you hear me?" Gimli waited for a response. 

The man let out a soft moan and slowly opened his eyes. When he saw Gimli he tried to sit up, but was stopped immediately and winced at an excruciating pain on his left side. He felt his hand to the source and found it to be wet with his blood; the troll's spear was lodged in his body. He blinked up at Gimli, who patted him on the shoulder and smiled. 

"You've survived War, my good man. It's a War we were happy to win, and now you may live to see better times!" The man gave him a weak smile, but his eyes revealed the pain and concern on his mind. Gimli faltered at this look, but quickly asked, "What is your name, soldier of Gondor?"

The man moistened his dry lips and replied in a cracking yet surprisingly strong voice, "I am Beregond, son of Baranor, of the Guard under the command of Lord Faramir." As the man's mind continued to awaken he began to grow more and more restless. He looked away from Gimli and his eyes began to dart around the ground surrounding him. 

"Where is he?" Beregond asked, holding himself up by the arm and looking around him. He ignored the stab of pain he felt from his side.

Gimli frowned. "Who? Lord Faramir?"

The man shook his head and his brow creased as a look of deep concentration overcame him, the kind of look one would have when trying to remember a name they spoke not too long ago. Beregond opened his eyes with a look of defeat and replied simply, "Pheriannath—Ernil i Pheriannath..." 

Gimli's frown deepened. "I'm sorry, Master Beregond, but I do not know that name."

Gimli's words reached deaf ears. "He—he saved me… where is he?" Beregond asked again; he sat up quickly and yelled in pain before he collapsed back onto the ground, only slightly conscious. 

Gimli shook his head sadly. He stood up, caught the attention of one of the other scouts, and called him over. 

The young man ran up to Gimli. "Yes, sir, have you found something?"

"Gather some men together and bring this Soldier of Gondor to the camp," Gimli said as he motioned to Beregond. He lowered his voice so Beregond couldn't hear, just in case he was still conscious. "He's severely wounded, and I'm afraid that if we don't get him help soon, he won't make it." 

The young man nodded and ran off. He returned shortly with more men, all bearing the Silver Tree on their armor and carrying a large, crudely made stretcher. They set the makeshift bed on the ground and walked over to the fallen soldier. They knelt around him and one of them placed several white rags and towels they had brought with them around Beregond's wound and nodded to the other men. Gimli winced at the sudden scream that escaped Beregond's lips as the soldiers slowly drew the spear out of his side. Once removed, the man with the rags pressed the white towels to Beregond's skin, applying pressure to the wound. The rags were stained red with blood in a matter of seconds. The instant pain sent the soldier into shock, and Beregond once again lost consciousness. 

Gimli watched solemnly as the men steadily lifted Beregond and moved him slowly towards the stretcher. Though they were soft-handed and gentle, the movement woke Beregond from his coma-like state. His eyes snapped open. They now reflected a kind of panic, and he did not seem to know where he was.

"Pheriannath!" He called out again as he was laid on the stretcher. "Ernil i Pheriannath! I can not leave him! Where is he?" The men frowned at this and shook their heads, muttering to each other in low voices.

Gimli sighed and looked up at the men. "He was calling that name earlier," he said as they lifted the stretcher from the ground, turned, and slowly made their walk towards the camp. He had to raise his voice to be heard over Beregond's yelling. "I told him I did not know the name, but he continues to call it nonetheless."

The young man looked back at Gimli. "'Ernil i Pheriannath' is no name. It is a title in another language." He turned and started back with the other men towards the camp.

"What does it mean?" Gimli called back at them.

The young man stopped and turned his head back to meet the eyes of the dwarf. "It means…" He let out a sigh. "It means 'Prince of Halflings'." He turned and disappeared from view over one of the large mounds, leaving Gimli standing alone, dumbstruck and with his mouth hanging open.

The Dwarf blinked several times while it sunk in. 'Halfling? But the only Halfling in the battle would be…'

His eyes widened. "Pippin!" he cried out loud. Filling with a frantic panic, Gimli ran back to the troll mound, threw himself to the ground, and began searching the area viciously, looking and praying for any sign of the young Hobbit. His eyes grazed the side of the troll, and something caught his eye.

It was a foot. A relatively hairy foot could be sticking out from the black and green scales of the troll. Gimli lunged at it and cursed as he heaved his weight against the troll in attempt to roll it over. 'No, no…' his mind cried as beads of sweat rolled down his brow. He'd know that foot anywhere. 

Gimli struggled with the troll for what seemed like hours, but was no more than a few minutes. His urgency filling him with a new strength, and he managed to move the massive troll enough to expose the small, lifeless body hid underneath the thick hide. The Hobbit was on his stomach, his arms and legs spread out with one hand still tightly clutching a short sword, which was covered with black blood. Gimli hesitated, not really wanting to turn the Hobbit over and see what fate had befallen him. Gimli drew a deep breath and rolled him over, wincing as he did so. 

"Pippin?" He asked softly as he shook the Hobbit at the shoulders. 

No answer.

Pippin's eyes were closed and a look of peace was across his young, pale face. Dry blood covered the areas around the small scratches on his cheek and the red of the wounds greatly contrasted the white of his skin. His lips had of a tint of blue and were slightly opened, but Gimli could feel no air escaping from them. 

Gimli bent down and put his ear against Pippin's small chest. He held his own breath as he listened for an intake of breath or the flutter of a heartbeat in the Hobbit's chest.

Nothing. 

He groped for Pippin's wrist and held it between his fingers, feeling and praying for a pulse. 

Nothing. 

"Pippin!" Gimli yelled through gathering tears, and he began to shake Pippin harder. But it was no use; the Hobbit did not stir. A deafening silence seemed to surround him, and it pounded in his ears and pressed down on his heart.

"No!" Gimli yelled aloud. "No, it can't be! Legolas… I'll get Legolas!" Gimli scooped up the small body in his arms and stood up. "Yes, Legolas can help him! And if he can't Gandalf surely can! Hold on, Pippin, you trust old Gimli; old Gimli will find you help!" 

He began to run. He ran faster than he'd ever run before. He stumbled often, for the tears that had built up in his eyes blurred his vision. He was covered in his own sweat and tears, and the troll blood that covered Pippin was rubbing off onto him. As he ran he felt his mind go back to the days he, Legolas, and Aragorn had spent in search of the captured Hobbits. He remembered the days of running he'd gone through to find them, the aching of his legs after a straight day's worth of running, and the relief he felt when he learned they were safe. He ran faster.

Blinded by tears and sweat, Gimli tripped over a shield and fell to the ground with a cry. He threw Pippin in front of him so he did not crush him again with his weight. Gimli's face was pressed against the ground, and he lifted himself slowly and looked ahead to make sure Pippin hadn't taken his fall too hard. Pippin was lying on the ground just in front of him; his face was unmoved and he showed no sign of feeling the blow, or anything at all.

A cry of dismay leapt from Gimli's heart and he pushed himself back up and recollected Pippin. Gimli thought that he could feel faint warmth coming off of Pippin's body, which was enough to fill him with a desperate hope. He looked down at the limp form in his arms before fixing his gaze determinedly ahead. He began to run again. 

His legs felt stiff and sore and his heart pounded in his chest and echoed in his head, but he didn't slow. He finally reached the camp area and made the final sprint to the Healing Tent. Breathless, he barged through the flaps and looked around him. Surprised by the sudden entrance, the others in the tent looked at him curiously. He could feel the stares of the others on him, but he paid them no heed. He ran down the aisles of the sick, a panicked and almost crazed look in his eyes, as he searched and cried out desperately for the Elf. 

~*~

Legolas walked along the aisles between the beds, singing softly in Elvish, helping with the sick when needed, and greatly boosting the tent's overall morale with his presence. It did the sick and injured good to look upon Legolas, for the fairness of the Elf's face and singing gladdened their hearts and softened their beaten spirits. The healers were very grateful for his presence, for his Elvish melodies and soft, magical voice seemed to heal even the sickest of men. 

While some were entranced by the Elf's beauty, others who looked upon him marveled at his calm demeanor. Despite the havoc, chaos, and anguish that surrounded them all, the Elf's face remained peaceful and without flaw, and his humming and singing were steady and soothing. His walk was slow and he stood tall above all others. A light seemed to lead in front of him and follow behind as he walked, giving a ray of hope to those who had none.

And this was how Gimli beheld him, walking calm and fair amongst the panicked and scarred. The Dwarf wished to pause for just a moment to revel at the tragic calmness of the Elf, but the urgency of his errand wouldn't allow it. He called out to his fair friend and ran forward, pushing his way through the crowded aisles.

"Legolas!" Gimli called to him. 

Legolas turned at the sound of his name and knew the voice to be that of Gimli's. Worry touched his heart at the urgency and panic that was reflected in the stout Dwarf's call, and his eyes searched for him.

Gimli came bursting through the crowd, wheezing loudly, and holding Pippin tight against his heaving chest. Fear dominated his eyes. Legolas's heart sank as he saw the small bundle Gimli was carrying, and he slowly fell to his knees. Gimli looked down at Pippin, held him out to the Elf, and allowed fresh tears to roll down his cheeks. He looked back up at Legolas in desperation. 

"You must help him, Legolas!" he cried.

Legolas reached out and carefully took the Hobbit in his arms. He stood and rocked the small form gently while his eyes searched for a bed. The whole room seemed to stop and grow silent. All eyes were turned to the Elf as his face showed its first signs of distress. He saw a healing bed and quickly walked to it, carefully laying Pippin on it. Gimli paced slowly around the side of the bed, periodically casting hopeful looks towards the Elf before turning them again to the ground. 

Legolas began examining Pippin. He felt his long hand to the small face and despair touched him at the icy feel of the little one's skin. He felt along Pippin's sides and found his right side was wet with blood. He looked at his small, pale face and frowned. Gimli held his breath and watched in a hopeful silence.  Legolas placed his hands on the Hobbit's forehead and chest and took a slow, deep breath and slipped into a trance. He focused on Pippin and searched for a stir of mind, struggling to find any kind of connection that could mean Pippin was alive. 

He felt nothing. 

The Hobbit's mind was closed, and Legolas's hand felt neither the stir of breath nor the beating of a heart under it. After several failed attempts to connect with Pippin, Legolas slowly opened his eyes and sighed.

Gimli's heart sank at the Elf's fallen face and he stopped pacing. "He's going to be alright, isn't he, Legolas? You can help him, can't you?" A soft sob escaped from Gimli's chest and his voice was strangely high and raspy. 

Legolas lowered his head. "I do not know." His clear voice faltered and he looked at the dwarf with sadness and defeat in his eyes. "I'm afraid we are too late."

TBC


	3. Chapter Two: Never to be Forgotten

The Prince Demised

Chapter Two: Never to be Forgotten

"How can that be?" Gimli demanded. "Is there nothing you can do? Is there nothing you can give him? Are there no Elvish herbs or incantations you can use?"

"He's beyond my help, Gimli." Legolas shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

Gimli fell to his knees and punched the ground in frustration. "No!" He bellowed. Anyone not already watching the Elf and Dwarf now turned to face them with curiosity. "Not after all we did to find him! Not after the relentless hunting we did to save him! I won't give up now! And you shouldn't either!" He looked and pointed accusingly at the Elf.

Legolas wordlessly lowered his head to look at Pippin, then slowly turned it back to Gimli. He shook his head sadly and despair crept into his eyes. "I'm sorry, Gimli. He's gone."

The Dwarf stood in silence and stared at the ground, his mind reeling for a solution. "We will find Gandalf." He said with finality ringing in his voice. "He will know what to do."

Legolas stood and looked down at Gimli. "I shall find Gandalf." He nodded at Pippin as he continued. "You shall stay and watch over Pippin; I fear moving him any more will only cause more damage." He turned and was out of sight in moments. 

~*~

Gimli paced the floor and muttered angrily to himself. He'd pause every once in awhile, look sadly at Pippin, and shake his head, quickly resuming his march. 'Never send an Elf,' he thought, 'to collect someone.' It'd been awhile since Legolas left to find Gandalf, and with each second Gimli could feel the hope of Pippin's revival draining from him.

At last Gimli caught a glimpse of the tall wizard and Elf quickly making their way toward him. As they drew closer, Gimli could see the head of Aragorn following behind them.  The three approached the bed and Gandalf placed a hand across the Hobbit's chest; a worried look came into his eyes as he studied Pippin's face. 

Gandalf shook his head and sighed. "I can do nothing," he said.

Gimli couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But you haven't even tried!" he yelled. "Isn't that what magic is for: healing people?" Gimli was glaring at the wizard.

Gandalf looked steadily back into the Dwarf's eyes. "Some magic is for healing, yes," he said slowly. "But not my magic."

Gimli opened his mouth and shut it again. He looked at Pippin and back up at Gandalf with a hopeful smile on his face. "Your Ring!" he pointed to Gandalf's hand that was still on Pippin's chest. "The Elvish one! You could use its magic."

Gandalf shook his head. "No, Gimli. This Ring's purpose is not for healing, and I'm afraid now that it wouldn't matter if it were. Since the destruction of the One Ring, I can feel its power slowly draining from me."

Gimli looked from Gandalf to Pippin to Legolas and Aragorn, and finally back at Gandalf. "So you're going to do nothing? You're going to let him die?" he choked at the words as the restrained sobs in his throat fought to escape.

Gandalf removed his hand from Pippin's chest and looked sadly down at Gimli. "He has already passed," he replied solemnly. "And no magic can revive the dead."

Gimli looked down at the ground, tears of anger and despair stinging in his eyes. Aragorn knelt on one knee and put a comforting hand on Gimli's shoulder. The Dwarf looked up and saw that tears were in the King's eyes.

"He is lost," Aragorn said sadly, "but will never be forgotten. He will always be remembered, Gimli. We will remember him, and we'll see to it that the world forever remembers him and what he did for us, for the Shire, and for all the peoples of Middle Earth."

Gimli dried his eyes with the back of his hand and nodded. "All the Dwarves," he said, "will know of his sacrifice."

Legolas also knelt beside Gimli and smiled sadly. "And the Elves," he said, "will sing of him for all the rest of the ages of this Earth."

"And the kingdoms of Men," said Aragorn, "will remember him as a Gondorian hero." He lowered his head. "And remember that their King could not save his own companion."

Gandalf shook his head and turned to Pippin's still form. "Pippin's passing was not your doing, Aragorn," he said. "There was nothing you could have done to save him; he was beyond our healing. He knew the dangers of this quest before he set out with the Company. His fate was out of our hands since he left Rivendell." The wizard turned his sad eyes from the small body to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, who all watched him silently. 

"And you must remember," the wizard continued, "that nothing happens without purpose or reason. We all feel regrets and frustration at the death of a dear friend, as I now feel grieved that I have been so hard on Pippin throughout this grim journey. However, we cannot let that feeling of grief take over our sense of reason. You, Aragorn," he turned to Aragorn, "are the rightful King of Gondor, and if you do not continue to believe in your own strength, then you cannot expect your subjects to keep good faith."

Aragorn nodded and raised his head. "I know, Gandalf."

Gandalf nodded and drew himself up to his full height, for he had been leaning his weight against his staff since his arrival at the bed. "I'm afraid," said he, "that I must return to other councils and errands. Alas that it is too busy for me to lament as fully as I wish to! I will have to wait for another time to grieve. I trust that you will take care of Pippin properly; I must be off."

Aragorn rose, his eyes still sadly looking at Pippin's body. He let out a heavy sigh and turned to Gandalf. "I also should be attending to other things. This is a grievous day, and I'm afraid I won't be able to concentrate on much else other than this grave loss." He turned to Gimli and Legolas, the latter of whom was still kneeling on the floor. "For now, farewell, my friends. May not your hearts be too heavy with grief." 

Aragorn and Gandalf looked once more at Pippin before they solemnly turned and walked away from the bed. It could be later said by Legolas and Gimli that they noticed a small weariness in the King's great strides as he exited the camp; it could be said by still others that he was quite distant and reserved for the remainder of the day, and kept to facing the ground as he walked in a solemn silence between his errands.

~*~

Legolas found the wizard pacing in the darkening tent. "Gandalf." He tapped him lightly on the shoulder to wake him from his trance. Gandalf turned to face the Elf. 

"Frodo and Sam have arrived."

Gandalf nodded slowly. As the candlelight flickered across his wise face, Legolas saw what he believed to be signs of weariness and distress. His eyes shone a bit brighter than they had in the months before, for the world was in a happier time now, but it was apparent that they held a large weight of grief and hardship beneath them. His eyebrows were lowered and his forehead creased under the weight of his deep concentration, and a strained feeling of resistance surrounded him. 

"How are they?" Gandalf's voice was filled with concern.

"Unconscious. Gwaihir carried them out of the heart of Mount Doom before it was completely destroyed. Had they been trapped out there only moments longer, they surely would both be dead."

"How is Frodo?"

Legolas sighed sadly. "His hand is mutilated and missing a finger. He looked deathly upon arrival, but he will heal with time. Most Hobbits do, and with surprising speed I might add."

"That is something I've observed myself, though I don't know how much a Hobbit can take before he is beyond hope of healing." Gandalf leaned against his staff for support. "This will be hard for the Hobbits; harder than any other hardship that they have already been forced to face."

Legolas nodded solemnly. "Are you going to tell them soon?"

"They must recover their strength; that is the only hope we still have that can keep them from despair. It is not guaranteed that with rest they will be spared depression, but it makes things look better for them."

"Shall I send for Merry?"

"No!" Gandalf shook his head. "No, it would be too painful for him. He shall stay in Minas Tirith."

Legolas frowned. "But surely that will drive him mad—having him wait that much longer to be reunited with his friends? He will be expecting to see Pippin return with us. What will he do when he realizes his cousin will never return?"

"We shall see when we arrive at the White City. Minas Tirith has become a familiar place to him; he has been given the time to grow comfortable in its surroundings. Grief is best felt in a familiar environment. I also believe it would be incredibly hard on the Hobbit to stay so close to the location where Pippin breathed his last breath. I would greatly discourage Merry from coming anywhere near this area at any time; it could be very painful."

Legolas nodded and a great sadness crept into his mind. "It will be hard on Frodo and Sam, but I'm afraid it will be hardest on poor Merry."

"As can be expected after their lasting companionship throughout this torturous adventure. Merry, I'm afraid, will never fully heal; he'll never forget his love for his cousin. We can not expect him to."

"And what of Frodo and Sam?"

"Everyone grieves in a different way. I believe Frodo and Sam will express their grief quite differently from each other, but they have the comfort of one another. I think it will hit Frodo the hardest of the two, but I hope he will heal with time."

Gandalf nodded a farewell to the Elf and walked outside of the encampment. The site of a legion of huge eagles met his eyes. He walked up to the largest of the flock that was rested and waiting on the ground. 

"Gwaihir, my old friend," Gandalf addressed the great eagle and its sharp eyes turned to the wizard. "I don't think I shall ever be able to repay you for all that you have done for our Company."

Gwaihir's eyes and voice were warm as he responded; "I do what I can to help a friend in need."  A mist covered the eagle's eyes and his head lowered. "I only regret that I could not save the little one you have lost. On behalf of the flock, our deepest sympathy goes out to you and your Company."

Gandalf nodded slowly. "These things happen, Gwaihir. Death may always come to those that do not deserve it, but those left behind will continue to carry on with their lives. The dead never really leave us entirely; they are always held in our hearts and minds."

"Your words are a comfort to all who hear them, Mithrandir. May your days be long and fruitful. Until we meet again, my friend, farewell." The eagle spread his majestic wings and pushed off from the ground. He rose higher in the air, wind ruffling against the golden brown feathers of his wings, until the entire flock was nothing more than a few small dots on the horizon.

Gandalf turned his eyes to the camp behind where Gwaihir had stood guard. He gripped his white staff and walked slowly towards the small forms bundled up in blankets on the ground beneath the trees. It would be a long wait before the hobbits woke again; he only needed to think of what to say when they are ready to hear him.

TBC


	4. Chapter Three: Too Nice a Day

(A/N) 

I am very flattered by the wonderful reviews you've all been so kind enough to give me! Thank you all so much; you've made the past 8 months of work really worth it. Quite honestly, the first two chapters are my least favorite parts of this fic. In my opinion, we're just now getting to the decent stuff (but then again, I'm a sucker for the Hobbits). If you were already reaching for the tissues in the past chapters, brace yourself. If you're a Hobbit lover, try not to hate me. If you're just now joining the fic, welcome and thanks for dropping by! ^_^ Now sit back, relax, and enjoy. *distributes boxes of tissues* 

(end A/N)

The Prince Demised

Chapter Three: Too Nice a Day

**April 8, 1419******

Sam yawned and stretched as the light of the world began to peak between his closed eyelids. He felt the sheets under him and realized he was in a bed. This puzzled him immensely and for a fleeting moment he believed he was back on Bag Shot Row and had dreamed the entire thing. He eyes fluttered open slowly and he immediately saw that wasn't the case; his master was beside him and bore his wounds of the journey. 

"It wasn't a dream!" Sam cried. "Then where are we?"

"In the land of Ithilien and in the keeping of the King; and he awaits you." Sam jumped at the voice and turned to see Gandalf, no longer the grey, but the white. Sam's mouth flew open and he stared in awe at the dazzling wizard. 

Gandalf gave the hobbit a warm smile. "Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?"

Sam blinked a few times and collected his wits before he could answer. "Gandalf!" he said. "I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What's happened to the world?"

At this, Gandalf seemed to falter, and the merriment in his eyes lessened ever so slightly. Still, he smiled and responded; "A great shadow has departed. Many things that were evil in the world have died off and may now be made anew, however not all things good that were lost may be so easily restored, Master Samwise. Sacrifices were made that can not be undone, but the great evil of the world has been absolved." 

A small knot formed in the wizard's throat as he looked down at the beaming Sam. He hadn't realized until that moment how difficult of a job telling the Hobbits about Pippin was going to be. He could handle Balrogs, Nazgûl, Orcs, and even the Dark Lord himself, but he had always had a strange weakness for the Halflings. The news he was holding from them could crush them, and he didn't think he'd be able to see that happen.

Slowly, Sam and Frodo began to regain their health and walk about the fields of Ithilien. Sam didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful place, except of course his home, and perhaps Lothlorien and Rivendell. But other than those, it was the most beautiful place of Middle Earth. The days went by in a whirl, and as Sam sat on a green mound late one night, he tried to remember all that had happened. Visions of Aragorn bowing and the great feast in their honor came to his mind. Sam smiled fondly at the memory of the feast; better food he had never eaten, nor had he ever seen so many important and powerful men in one area before. 

Frodo stirred in his place beside Sam where he was lying and took the strand of grass he had been chewing out of his mouth; a shadow of worry was across his face. 

"Sam?"

"Yes, Mister Frodo?" Sam looked down at his master and waited for him to continue.

"Has Gandalf made mention of Merry or Pippin to you yet?" 

Sam's brow creased and he thought hard for a few moments before replying, "No, sir, I don't believe he has."

Frodo nodded. "I didn't think so…"

Sam frowned as worry crept into his mind. "Why, Mister Frodo? Do you think anything's wrong?"

Frodo shook his head and smiled at his loyal friend. "No, Sam; not at all. I was just curious, is all. I'm sure we'll see them when we travel to Minas Tirith." Frodo put the green twig back in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully on the end. 

Sam nodded slowly in agreement and turned back to face the sunset. 'My, doesn't Home look pretty from here?' he thought as hues of pink and gold splashed the western sky. He smiled and thought of the day he, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin would all return to their long missed homes and live once again in happiness and peace in the Shire until the end of their days.

**April 9, 1419******

The bright morning sun woke Sam from his slumber and he stretched the weariness out of his arms and legs. He turned and saw that Frodo was already on his feet and staring thoughtfully into the distance.

"Good morning, Mister Frodo." Sam stood and Frodo turned to face him with a smile. "Looks like a beautiful day, if I do say so." 

"Simply lovely, and it's kind of you to wake in time to enjoy it with the rest of us," Frodo laughed lightheartedly as Sam's cheeks went pink. "Now hurry up and rub the sleep out of your eyes. Gandalf sent for us to come and help him prepare the company to ride out to Minas Tirith." 

Sam nodded and began walking towards the nearby spring to wash his face and feet. 

~*~

The two met up with Gandalf at the far side of the camp where horses were being groomed and groups organized to set out early the next day. The Wizard smiled and held his arm out, motioning a small table to the two as they approached. 

"You'll be wanting breakfast before anything else, will you not?" he asked with a smile; the two Hobbits eagerly sat at the table and began to eat. Gandalf also pulled up a chair and took a seat beside them.

"When is the group leaving, Gandalf?" Frodo asked between bites. 

"Soon, soon; hopefully early tomorrow morning if all is ready. Here, try the butter with your bread, Sam." Gandalf passed over the small tray to the hungry gardener. 

"And the people of Minas Tirith?" Frodo paused to swallow a large piece of fruit. "They are alright?"

"Yes, they are fairing well. Though I imagine they are greatly anticipating the coming of their King, which is all the more reason for us to hurry and leave." Sam began to cough as he choked on his piece of bread. "Well we're not in that big of a rush, Sam; don't think you have to rush through your breakfast."

"Oh, I wasn't Mr. Gandalf. I mean, thank you, sir. But how is the rest of our Fellowship? I know Boromir's dead, which was an awful thing to happen of course; would you mind telling us how? I'm not sure if I exactly understand it all myself. Perhaps not now though, it is too nice a day to talk of such things. And if you don't mind me asking, sir, I noticed Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are all here, but what of Merry and Pippin?" Frodo stopped eating and looked up at Gandalf, silently waiting for the Wizard's answer to Sam's question. 

Gandalf felt the eyes of the expectant Hobbits on him, yet he kept his calm composure and lighted replied, "Merry was doing quite well when last I saw him. He slew the King of the Nazgûl outside the walls of the city while fighting for the ranks of Rohan, and is now most likely in the care of the healers at the Houses of Healing." The small knot began pulling at the sides of his stomach again; he knew what he would be asked next.

Sam and Frodo smiled momentarily at this, but the darkened face of the Wizard was discouraging. 

"And Pippin?" Sam asked, still smiling but with a great amount of foreboding beginning to mass in his stomach.

Gandalf gave a heavy sigh and his thoughts raced; he could avoid the question no longer. He turned to face the hobbits and leaned against the table, laying his white staff on the floor beside him. He looked solemnly in their eyes, and laid his hands on each of their shoulders. 

Sam's heart plummeted to his stomach. He shivered at the touch of the powerful wizard; he believed he felt Frodo beside him do the same. He felt a great urge to close his eyes, turn, and run; maybe the news he was about to hear wouldn't follow him and all would be well again.

Gandalf looked Sam straight in the eye. The Hobbit gulped and began to shake in anticipation of what he was about to hear.

The Wizard drew a breath and finally replied, "I am afraid, Samwise, that it will be a long time yet ere you see Pippin once more."

"Surely he has not gone too far?" Sam asked pleadingly; though his heart knew exactly what Gandalf meant, he didn't want to give in to that terrible feeling of agony just yet. "Shall we see him when we ride to Minas Tirith? Is he with Merry there?" Sam looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Frodo sitting perfectly still, his hand tightly grasping his glass cup and his face drained of all color.

"No, Sam." Gandalf's words were slow and articulate. "His time on this earth has ended; he died in the battle at the Black Gate." A glint of a silver tear shone in the Wizard's eyes but he held Sam's gaze. "I am sorry."

Sam felt the news cut through him like a knife. A wave of agony overcame him and he leaned into the table. He felt tears rush upon him and burn in his eyes, but before he could release them he was startled by a loud crash as Frodo's cup fell from his hand and shattered on the hard ground below it. Sam turned to see his master on his knees, staring blankly ahead with silent tears forming in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. His face was twisted with anguish and his body swayed.

Sam fell to his own knees and faced his master. He placed his large hand on Frodo's shoulder and hesitantly called to him. 

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo continued to stare ahead, not showing any signs of being aware of Sam's presence. 

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried and shook Frodo sharply.

Frodo jerked and shook his head. He looked at Sam with empty, lost eyes and his chest heaved as he drew in deep, staggered breaths.

Sam felt tears fall from his eyes as he looked into his master's once again hurt and pained face. He didn't think he could take it anymore; how could Frodo be forced to carry so many pains and sorrows?

"Mr. Frodo, I'm… I'm sorry… it's not fair!" Sam sobbed as he placed his hand comfortingly against Frodo's now tear-stained cheek.

Sam's hand sent a shock wave through Frodo, waking him from his agonizing daze and silent mourning. He looked at Sam for a moment or two before springing his feet and turning away from the table. He began to run towards their camp. 

Sam watched him run for a moment before he too rose to his feet and stumbled after his master, hurt, confused, and distraught.

"Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo, wait!" Sam called after Frodo, but his master only quickened his pace.

Gandalf had risen when Frodo fell, and now watched the scarred Hobbit run towards his camp, his ever loyal and loving companion following behind him. The Wizard leaned against his staff and gripped the rod tightly. His head dropped and held it in his hand as he silently wept.

TBC


	5. Chapter Four: A Burden of Guilt

The Prince Demised

Chapter Four: A Burden of Guilt

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam's feet pounded against the hard, cold floor as he ran after his friend and master. Frodo quickened his pace ahead. "Mr. Frodo, please!"

Frodo looked over his shoulder as he ran. "Go back, Sam! Just leave me alone for once!" he yelled back.

Sam saw a sparkle of tears as the sunlight shone against Frodo's cheeks. In the silence of the field, Sam could hear his master's soft sobs over the sound of his own racing heartbeat and heavy breathing. 

Frodo saw the camp just ahead. He slowed his pace slightly as he approached the beds and collapsed on his own. Sam followed after Frodo and was at his master's side within moments. Tears covered Sam's cheeks and he slowly approached Frodo's bed. Frodo hid his face in the folds of the covers. 

"Go away, Sam." Frodo mumbled into the fabric. "I don't want to talk to you."

The bed sank slightly as Sam sat at its edge and sighed. "Mr. Frodo… I'm sorry. I know this—this hurts. I just can't believe—" Sam shook his head and tears poured down his cheeks. "Can't believe he's gone…" In reality, the news still hadn't sunk in with Sam; it would be awhile before he really understood what it was Gandalf had told him, and knew what exactly it meant.

Frodo winced at the sound of Sam's sobs. "Sam…" Frodo's voice held hints of sympathy but with the bite of annoyance, "please, don't. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but all I want right now is to be left _alone_," he punched the bed with a weak fist to emphasize this word. 

Sam gave him a stubborn response; "I'm not going nowhere, Mr. Frodo. I'm here to help you, and that's what I'm going to do."

"If you want to help me, Sam," Frodo looked up from the bed and frowned at Sam from under his unruly curls and the tears that covered his cheeks, "then you'll leave." 

Frodo's voice held a harsh tone that he had never before used willingly towards Sam, and it hurt his friend to hear it aimed at him. Sam bit his lip and turned away, unable to see his master glaring at him so. The tone in Frodo's voice and the glares he was getting now almost made Sam want to get up and walk out, but he hadn't walked out on Frodo yet, and he didn't plan to start now. 

Try as he might, Sam just couldn't understand it. Why was Frodo being so spiteful to him? Had he done something wrong, or is this just Frodo's way of responding to Pippin's death? Sam broke into fresh tears when his thoughts went back to the death of his friend. 'It's not fair,' he thought to himself, 'that one so young and full of hope and spirit should be forced into battle… into death…'. Sam looked back at Frodo and saw that he had once again hid his face in the sheets of his bed and his shoulders shook as he sobbed into the mattress. Sam felt as though he would rather like to see Frodo mad at him again than he would his master so distraught. The gardener crawled further onto the bed and reached out to lightly touch Frodo's shoulder. 

Frodo shuddered at the touch and shrugged of the hand. He tried to repeat 'Leave me alone,' but his words got caught in his throat and just came out as an especially loud sob. 

Sam shook his head, beside himself with worry and confusion; he was clueless as to what he should do now. He couldn't figure out why Frodo was acting this way, and was even less sure of what he could do to help ease his pain. He sighed and decided to try and talk Frodo through this. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo. I know this hurts… it's certainly a shock." Sam got a loud sob as a reply. "But we—we have to get through this, somehow. I know we can do it, Mr. Frodo; we can get through this together. And what of poor Merry?" Sam felt more pain cut through his heart and tears well up in his eyes. He reached up with his sleeve to wipe them away. "Merry… will be heartbroken; you know how he took responsibility for Pippin this whole time. And we, Mr. Frodo—we have to be strong for him; for Merry." Frodo simply buried his head further into the mattress and his left hand tightened over the sheet of fabric he had been clutching so that his knuckles were a pure white. Sam sighed sadly and shook his head. "I know this hurts, Mr. Frodo; I know how you must feel—"

"How… could you… possibly… kn-know… how… I feel?" Frodo's muffled, yet surprisingly firm, voice demanded between his sobs and hiccups. He slowly looked up at Sam with bloodshot eyes and a face that was damp with tears. 

Sam felt taken aback by this question, and looked at Frodo with a confused expression on his face. "What… do you mean, Mr. Frodo?"

"You… have n-no idea what I'm feeling r-right now." 

"Well I don't think that's fair at all, begging your pardon. Pippin was my dear friend, too, and I just can't believe he's gone—"

"No, Sam!" Frodo yelled and caused Sam to jump so suddenly that he nearly fell off the mattress. "You still don't know!" Frodo slowly pushed himself up so that he could face Sam in the eye. His shoulders shook as he held back a sob.

Sam was genuinely confused, and his blank, slightly hurt expression showed it. "Sorry, sir, but what don't I get?"

Frodo wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and drew a deep breath. "Had I destroyed the Ring just a few minutes earlier; had I not given in to my own weak will and stupid cravings; had I had the strength to do the task that I set out to do, Pippin would still be alive! Just a few moments earlier and his life would have been spared!" 

A look of disgust formed across Frodo's face. "But I lingered! I couldn't do it! That wretched Gollum had to bite it from my hand!" He held out his mangled hand and looked at it with disgust before hiding it away again. He turned to face Sam with a hint of pleading in his eyes. "Don't you see, Sam? It's my fault! It's my fault Pippin's dead! I was too weak! I killed him! I'm nothing more than a murderer! I might have held the sword that felled him; I'm no better than the troll. In fact, I'm worse than it. If it weren't for me, Sam, Pippin would still be alive!" 

These words cut Sam almost as much as Gandalf's and he put his hand on Frodo's shoulder. He waited for his master to meet his eyes before and said, "If it weren't for you, Mr. Frodo, none of us would still be alive." Tears rolled down Sam's cheeks and his mouth formed a small, sad smile. "You're a hero, Mr. Frodo; you've saved us all, and don't you forget it. Pippin knew the dangers of following you as much as the rest of us. But, just like the rest of us, he followed all the same. He would have understood why he had to die, Mr. Frodo, and he wouldn't have blamed you for a moment." He reached up with his thumb to catch a stray tear as it rolled down Frodo's cheek. "Not for a moment."

"If I'm such a hero, then how could I allow my own cousin to die?" Frodo shrugged off Sam's hand and felt a knot form in his throat. "Why did I not die myself? Why is it that the young and innocent are killed when those who deserve death are spared? I should have died Sam; everyone thought I would. Even I thought I would, and now I wish I had."

"Stop it, Mr. Frodo!" Sam could take no more of his master's talk. It pierced his heart to hear Frodo saying such things, and angered him that his master did not realize his own importance. "Pippin's death was no one's fault, and there was nothing you could've done to stop it. It was out of your control."

"Was it, Sam?" Frodo demanded. "Don't you understand? Pippin was mortally injured in the few short minutes of battle, minutes I delayed and gave in to my weakness!" Tears flowed freely down Frodo's cheeks, and he no longer cared enough to continue to wipe them away. 

Across from him, Sam was in no better of a state and his cheeks were now as rosy as his eyes. "And don't _you_ understand, Mr. Frodo, that none of us blame you for any of it. You can't blame yourself for feeling the intense temptation of the Ring. You're our hero! You've done what no one else would have had the strength to do! Elves will sing your praises for years to come!"

"I don't care, Sam!" Frodo snapped at the gardener. "I don't care for songs or poems or remembrance. I don't care for any of it!"

Sam paused and tried to read Frodo's expression. "What do you care for, Mr. Frodo?" He asked slowly.

Frodo fell silent. The immediate answer was that he cared for nothing, but his compassion for his friends banished the thought. He lowered his head in defeat. "I wish I knew, Sam. But I feel as though whatever I had cared for, whatever it was that I had been fighting for, is now gone." He stopped himself from saying anymore, as what he wished to say would worry Sam too much. 

In the silence of their surroundings, Frodo wandered in deep thought. In the few days it had been since the destruction of the Ring, he had felt himself changing. He felt thin. Every moment that went by he sensed more of himself fade away; each breath now was a battle just to continue breathing. Now, at the core of his grieving, he knew he had failed Pippin, and he hated himself for it.

Though Frodo had left his true emotions unsaid, Sam could sense his struggle; he could see the distance in his master's eyes. Sam longed to see Frodo as he was in Bag End, before his life was torn by Rings and Dark Lords. He would give the Shire if only he could see the old sparkle in Frodo's eyes and hear the clear ringing of his laughter. Tired and scarred, his master now looked as though he would never smile again. 

Sam wished he could understand the depth of pain Frodo was feeling, but why Frodo was blaming himself was beyond Sam's comprehension. He sadly knew that all he could do was be there to watch helplessly while tears rolled down his master's eyes as his world crumbles upon him and he collapses from the unbearable weight of the burden that will continue to haunt him until the end of his days. 

Sam reached out and once again brushed the tears off his master's cheek with his thumb. Frodo looked up at Sam's sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo." Sam gave him a sad smile. "I wish I could help you see how much you've done for the world, and help to ease your pain, but I don't know how to do it." 

"You being here is enough help, Sam." Frodo's mouth formed a hint of a grateful smile through his tears as he finally gave in and accepted Sam's desperate attempts to help him. "I can't imagine facing this hardship alone." 

Sam gave a sad smile and brought Frodo into a warm embrace. Instead of shrugging him off, Frodo wrapped his arms around his friend's neck and cried into his shoulder. And so the two stayed for the remainder of the day and some time into the night, the fabric of their shirts catching the other's tears, and unaware of time or space and feeling only the weight of their loss and comfort of each other.

TBC

A/N: In next week's chapter, we finally see Merry's first reaction to the news of his cousin's death…


	6. Chapter Five: In Darkness Buried Deep

The Prince Demised

Chapter Five: In Darkness Buried Deep

**April 13, 1419**

Merry had been waiting for this day for what seemed like years. He constantly ran from the Houses of Healing to the Citadel to the stables and back to the Houses of Healing all that morning, helping to get everything ready for the arrival of his friends. He looked up at the sun and then down to the broken gates; it would be several hours yet before they came. He paced around his room in the Houses of Healing, first looking at the floor, then out the window to the sun, now to the floor. Ioreth entered and shook her head. 

"If you don't stop that pacing, Master Meriadoc, you'll wear a path into the ground." The old woman smiled at Merry when he turned to face her. "You have a visitor at the door. Make sure he takes you somewhere; anywhere! Some fresh air should calm you nerves."

Merry smiled. He walked towards the door and paused. He smiled mischievously up at Ioreth. "Don't count on it," he said. He gave the healer a quick nod and was out the door. He met Bergil waiting for him at the doorstep. 

"The day's finally come," was all the lad said. 

Merry nodded and followed his friend to the gardens surrounding the Houses. There they walked in silence as they had done for many hours in the days before. Merry had grown fond of the lad, and was very grateful to have a friend to help him through the wait. It was a day they had both been looking forward to for what seemed like ages, but could only have been a couple of weeks.

"When my father comes home," Bergil would say, "he'll be a hero. Everyone will know who he is. Trumpets will ring for him, and men from years yet to come will speak of his greatness." He would look up to the sky with a proud smile. 

Merry would smile and nod. "I'm sure they will," he would say. "When my friends return, it'll be a magnificent hour. The Fellowship together again, after the winning of the war; can you believe it?" He would give a short laugh and take a seat on a bench to think. "Strider will be King, and the four Hobbits will return to the Shire. The Shire! How I miss the place. It'll be as beautiful as ever, our old home will, and everything will be better than I had the hope to believe when we first started out on this dreadful journey. Frodo and Sam will be at Bag End of course, I'll be Master of Buckland, and Pippin will be the Took and Thain. No doubting we'll be honored all throughout the land, and our stories will be told to every Hobbit child born there after…"

Merry smiled at the memory of the past conversations, but he now felt an odd feeling in his gut. He stopped suddenly and stood silent in thought. Bergil, surprised at the action, turned to him. "Alright, Merry?" He asked with concern in his voice.

Merry shook his head slowly and looked up. "I'm fine; just feel a bit… off." He saw the confused expression on Bergil's face and quickly continued. "It's probably nothing, just a bit of nerves. I have this odd feeling that… well that something's not right." Merry took a step forward to a stone bench and sat down.

Bergil sat beside Merry and studied his expression closely. "What do you mean, 'not right'?"

Merry held his head in his hands. "I don't know, Bergil; I just have this feeling that something's gone wrong. The only news I've heard on my friends was that Gandalf wished for me to stay in Minas Tirith. I don't know why; I quite thought he would call me to the Field along with the others that left several days ago. Something about all this worries me."

Bergil gave a clear laugh and leaned back. "What's there to worry about?" he asked in his carefree tone.

"Plenty!" Merry dropped his hands to rest on his knees and looked up to the sky in thought. "If one of my friends didn't make it, what would I do?" Distress filled his voice and he shook his head. "What could I do?"

"I think you're worrying too much." Bergil said as he absentmindedly pushed around the dirt on the ground with his foot. "You'll see all your friends in no time, just you wait! I told you before and I'll tell you again: the Men, and Perian, of Minas Tirith will never be overcome! They will come back."

"I'm sure you're right, Bergil." Merry looked back at the boy and smiled. "I'm worrying too much." 

~*~

Bergil and Merry walked the length of the garden several times, and as the sun began its downward path to evening, a clear trumpet rang across the land. Merry and Bergil jumped at the sound, and the Hobbit felt a great excitement rise in his body. 'This is it,' Merry thought. 'After all this time, they've finally come.'

Bergil ran ahead towards the gate and looked back at Merry, who still stood motionless behind him. "Come on, Merry!" Bergil shouted. "They're here!"

Merry then remembered to use his legs, and he ran as fast as they would take him to the gates. He slowed to a stop at the blockade of people in front of him, and bent between their tall legs to get in closer. Soon people noticed his and Bergil's presence, and they parted to allow the two a more clear view. 

A grand host slowly made its way towards the city. The silver armor shone and sparkled in the light of the falling sun and shades of pinks and reds danced on the hides of the soldiers' horses. Banners rippled in the breeze and the trumpets continued to sound.

Merry felt Bergil tug on his sleeve and he reluctantly looked away from the sight before him to face his friend. Bergil pointed up to the grand tower at the gate. "Look," he said, "there stands Faramir and Éowyn." As Merry looked up, he could see the two forms standing against the black of the stone, Éowyn's white gown billowing around them. 

Merry nodded and turned back to the company that was now approaching the gates. "All hail Aragorn, King of Gondor!" the strong voice of Faramir boomed across the field and the people cheered as Aragorn's horse stepped on the other side of the stone wall. Merry felt tears start in his eyes at the sight of his old guide and friend. So tall and proud he looked: the noblest and most tragic of kings. Though he delighted to see Aragorn once again, Merry's true happiness came when he saw the two ponies walking slowly beside his horse.

Frodo and Sam sat almost as tall and proud as the King, except for a small slump in both of their shoulders. Merry felt such a joy at seeing them again that he nearly burst right into the middle of the procession, but a large group of people suddenly crowded in front of him and blocked him from doing so. Merry backed away and frowned at their behavior. He could now see nothing, though he believed he caught a glimpse of Gandalf's staff over the many heads blocking his view. He ran along side the company and looked for Bergil, but saw that he was gone. 

Merry stopped and turned back. By now many of the people had flocked to hug their loved ones, and Aragorn had once again been introduced as Gondor's rightful and victorious King. As Merry stubbornly pushed his way through the hoards of people, he saw Bergil not far ahead of him doing the same. 

"Bergil!" Merry called after him, but something else caught the boy's attention before he could respond. The lad stopped in his tracks and gasped before running awkwardly ahead. Merry managed to break through to the small gap that Bergil had stopped in and now stood, looking at a stretcher in front of him. 

The soldiers carrying the bed stopped and looked down at the boy, recognizing him for who he was. "Bergil, my good lad," said one, "how are you?"

Bergil approached the stretcher slowly and gulped. "Is that… " A look of great pain came over his pale face and the soldiers nodded solemnly.

Bergil moistened his quivering lip and Merry could see a tear in his eye. "Is he…"

Suddenly, the form in the stretcher stirred and Beregond turned to smile down at his son. "I should think not," he said with tears in his eyes. He reached out to grasp his shocked son's hand and a grim smile came across his face. "I'm quite alright, my boy. And I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you." 

Bergil let out a cry of joy and wrapped his arms around his father. Merry smiled at the lad. "Enjoy your happy ending, my friend," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

This reunion increased Merry's excitement and he began once again pushing his way forward for a grand reunion of his own, excited knots of anticipation tightening in his stomach. 

Slowly but persistently, Merry made his way to his friends. He could picture the entire thing perfectly: he'd finally embrace Frodo and Sam again, followed by Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli. Last of all would be Pippin, who would receive a large hug and be told how lucky he was that he came back. Merry laughed and decided to jokingly add how he couldn't believe that a Hobbit so careless and unhero-like as Pip could make himself out to be a war hero. Merry smiled warmly at the thought. Finally, after all this time of worry, his restless nights would be over; his friends were safe. All he had to do now was get to them.

Merry finally pushed his way past the largest crowd and broke through to the small clearing where his companions now stood. "Frodo! Sam!" He ran, eyes brimming with tears, and embraced his dear friends. He felt them return the hug, though he faltered at the weakness in their arms. 

Merry pulled away, though keeping a hand each of their shoulders, and beamed at his worn friends. 'How tired they both look!' he thought as he saw the shadow that was spread across Frodo's face and reflected in his eyes. 'But they're here, and that's all that matters now.' 

"Merry," Frodo gave his cousin a warm smile. "How are you?"

"Far better than I should be, I'm afraid." Merry gave a short laugh before a small frown touched his lips. "But, my dear Frodo, how tired you look! And you also, Sam. It must have been a terrible journey. I'm so sorry you had to face it."

"It had to be done, Merry." Frodo replied with a grim smile as Sam solemnly nodded in agreement.

Merry nodded and smiled up at the other members of the Fellowship as they fondly patted his shoulders, back, and head. He stood on his toes and looked over Frodo and Sam's heads and began looking around him in confusion. After a few moments of searching, he chuckled and looked back at Frodo. 

"Alright, Frodo, speak up. Where's Pippin hiding?" He asked with a small, knowing smile playing across his lips.

A strange expression came suddenly over Frodo's face and Merry could see Sam grasp his free shoulder in support. 

"Frodo?" Merry's grasp on Frodo's other shoulder tightened and he looked at his cousin with concern. "Are you alright?"

Frodo slowly lifted his head until Merry could clearly see the pain in his eyes and dried tearstains on his cheeks that shone in the purple light of the sunset. Merry felt a sharp pain in his chest.

"Frodo," he asked slowly, "where's Pippin?"

"Merry, I…" Frodo's voice quivered and he drew a shaky breath, sending another shock wave to Merry's heart and stomach. The glistening of fresh tears shone in the pools of Frodo's already sorrowful eyes. 

"Tell me Pippin's alive, Frodo." Merry's voice was shaking slightly. "That's all I want to hear. Just say those two words; tell me 'he's alive'. Tell me he's hiding behind Aragorn's horse and this is all another one of his immature practical jokes." Merry's hands and legs began to shake as he felt the linings of his world slowly melting away in Frodo's silence. "Tell me!" He yelled and Frodo gave a small gasp.

"I can't!" Frodo lowered his head and cupped his hand around his mouth to hold in the sobs.

Gimli turned to Legolas with a pleading look in his eyes, but the Elf shook his head. The Hobbits started on this journey alone and together, and he felt they should share and bear its tragedies in the same fashion if they were forced to bear them at all. It was not his nor Gimli's place to intervene.

A few seconds had passed in silence and Frodo lifted his head again, eyes now pink and bloodshot from the tears. "Merry, I'm sorry…"

"No…" Merry whispered under his breath; he was watching his worst nightmare unfold before him. His insides began to tighten and he wished with all his might and heart that he would wake up.

"Pippin—" Frodo choked on the words forming in his mouth and Sam gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Pippin… didn't make it. He's… he's dead, Merry." Tears sprung from his eyes and the words he spoke tasted like poison. 

"No…" The whisper escaped Merry's lips. He stood rigid and frozen, his eyes fixed on the ground and his hands tightening and relaxing rhythmically on Frodo and Sam's shoulders. The world was crumbling around him, and there was nothing he could do to make this new pain he was feeling stop. His stomach churned, his heart ached, and his legs shook violently. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks as his heart raced and his head swam for answers. He found none. 

"Merry?" Merry looked up into Frodo's pained eyes. "I'm so sorry." A small sob shook his older cousin's body. 

Merry released Frodo and Sam from his grasp and backed away. Frodo stepped forward and tried to pull Merry in to a hug, but Merry pushed him off. His wild eyes looked around at the lowered heads of the Fellowship before he turned and ran towards the Houses of Healing. 

Sam stepped forward and made an attempt to follow after, but Frodo grabbed his arm and shook his head. "No, Sam," he whispered as he watched Merry force the door of the house open and disappear inside. "There's nothing we can do now to comfort him." 

Sam turned sorrowfully to look at the dark houses. He heard the all too familiar sound of Frodo's soft sobs beside him, and he turned to embrace his master in a comforting hug. The Fellowship stood still and grieved silently with downcast eyes and hearts.

**April 15, 1419**

Merry had never felt anything like this before.

He sat on the cold stone bench in the garden, his eyes staring ahead at the dying sun. His heart yearned for darkness and he greatly anticipated the night, the only time when his surroundings were as black as his thoughts of late. Not a moment went by that he did not see Pippin's face, smiling at him with bright eyes and rosy cheeks that glowed wherever the sun touched them. Tears stung in Merry's eyes as he heard Pippin's voice, playfully calling out to him. He ached to the marrow with the distraught of this loss; he didn't know it was possible to feel so alone—so empty.

The past days had been filled with torture. He didn't sleep at all the night of the Fellowship's return, but instead lied sprawled across his bed and crying never-ending tears of agony. The day after was a blur; he couldn't remember a thing, only the black sorrow he had come to know all too well.

Pippin was dead. The words kept repeating through his mind, but they still seemed so foreign. Pippin couldn't be dead; he was too full of life. No, not his cousin. Not the Hobbit that gave the Maggot dogs reason to fear him. Not the lad that had caught every lass's eye in the Shire, but never knew it. Not the best friend that had always shared everything with Merry, including his worst colds. It wasn't possible. Now Merry sat alone on the edge of depression, beyond comfort and any hope for strength. 

Strength. If he managed to retain even an iota of strength throughout this whole journey, it was because of Pippin. It was all quite ironic, really; he had begun the quest with the anticipation of being Pippin's source of strength and protection. By the time the quest was well underway, however, Merry sought out Pippin for _his_ strength and protection. He found it in his cousin's eyes, in his smile, in his cheerful voice, and his childish nature. Now Pippin was gone, and he took Merry's strength and will to continue along with him. 

Merry let out a sorrowful sigh and rose slowly from the hard bench. He shivered as a chilled night breeze whistled by him. The sun had set and it was growing darker by the second. He lowered his head and walked back to the houses to shut himself in his room and spend another sleepless night tightly curled up on his bed, feeling alone and abandoned.

TBC

(A/N) And this is only the beginning of the Merry Angst. After all, there are still 6 chapters left of this baby. Hope you enjoyed/approved of this particularly moving chapter and thank you for your reviews so far! As I've said before, they are very greatly appreciated and have made me very happy. Thank you.


	7. Chapter Six: When His Mound is Raised

The Prince Demised

Chapter Six: When His Mound is Raised

**April 16, 1419******

_Knock, knock._

"Mr. Merry?" Ioreth asked softly and listened for a response. 

A long moment of silence from the other side answered her. She shook her head sadly and sighed.

"Mr. Merry, are you there?" she asked again.

A few more seconds of soundlessness passed before she heard a soft voice reply.

"Yes," it said as if it regretted the answer.

"Good. Now the procession's gettin' ready to start. You don't want to miss the burial, do you?" 

An unsure silence followed before the voice sighed. 

"No," it said, sounding only half sure of its answer.

"I didn't think so. Now hurry along and come on out, or they'll start without you." 

A small amount of movement could be heard coming from the room before the knob slowly began to turn and the door opened, swinging hesitantly on its rusted hinges. A small form looked out from inside the dark room and turned its eyes up to meet with the healer's.

Ioreth had never seen the halfing look so small and helpless before, like a child who knew he was about to receive a harsh beating for his misbehavior. She smiled warmly and reached out her hand to place on his shoulder. 

"Come along, Mr. Merry," she said, "it won't last long."

Merry looked down to the ground and stepped out from the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He fingered his Fellowship broach as he walked heavily out of the houses and to the graves of Rath Dínen. The mounds loomed in from of him ominously, and he could see a mound of brown sand that was waiting eagerly to cover Pippin. An open stone casket was placed in the grass beside it.

Heads turned as Ioreth and Merry slowly approached. Merry lifted his head to look around him. At the side of the casket, Merry saw Bergil standing with dried tears and a downcast face. He tightly held the larger hand of his father Beregond, who was staring sadly into the casket, his head shaking slowly and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Merry's eyes continued to scan the people present and saw Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn standing among the many Gondorian soldiers present, including a teary-eyed Captian Faramir. Frodo and Sam were standing off to the side of the mounds, looking sadly in the direction of the stone casket. Sam looked down at the ground and then in Merry's direction. He tapped Frodo on the shoulder and nodded over to the new arrival.

Merry stood silently as the two slowly approached him. Tears were shinning in both their eyes. Frodo walked up to Merry's side and gently took hold of his arm. On the other side, Sam did the same. 

"Merry," Frodo addressed his cousin in a soft voice, "will you go see Pippin with us?"

Merry raised his head and looked at the beautiful stone casket only a few feet away. A knot formed in his throat when he realized that that stone casket held Pippin. He fought back the tears and nodded his head slowly. Frodo and Sam began to lead the slightly hesitant Merry towards the casket. 

Merry reached out to the edge of the stone as they approached it and stopped. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to ready himself for the blow. When he opened his eyes and lowered them to see the form lying before him, he gripped the sides of the coffin and a cry escaped from the depths of his throat where he'd held it for the past several days. 

The sight that met his eyes looked both terribly noble and grim. The small Hobbit was dressed in a gleaming mail shirt and clad in the armor of Gondor, over which was his slightly torn Elven cloak. His arms were crossed over the silver tree on his chest and his white hands rested on his short blade from the Barrow-wights. A headband made of cold silver wrapped around his forehead, and a bright circlet in the center contained a single glittering green gem. Had Merry not seen the scar on Pippin's hand from a tree-climbing accident in the Shire, he would have not believed this was his dear, playful cousin. He looked so white; so awfully tragic. 

Merry could hold it in no longer. He collapsed and began to weep. Frodo knelt and embraced his cousin, getting neither rejected nor pushed away as Merry finally allowed for the contact. He buried his face into Frodo's shoulder and they both cried. 

~*~

As Merry stood to the side, endless tears streaming relentlessly down his face, and watched them lower Pippin into the ground, he felt a part of him also retreating into the depths of the tomb. He winced as the first shovel of dirt was dropped onto the closed casket. 

A sad voice softly singing threads of sad words rose up from among the crowd. The King Elessar began to sing a lament, and as the people listened to his words their eyes began to fill again with tears of despair.

_Leaving the golden hills of home,_

_He longed to follow his friend_

_From fertile lands to halls of stone,_

_Where he met his end.___

_Through Elven-halls and Dwarf-lands cold,_

_Over mountains and through the streams,_

_His Journey will be sung and told_

_And be remembered in our dreams._

_A body only half Man's size,_

_But courage many times stronger,_

_Alas! For our dear Prince demised,_

_The Halfling shall breathe no longer._

At the end of the lament, silence once again dominated the fields. Many others felt moved enough to add their own verses, but most felt too weak with sadness to do so. 

Merry watched as the coffin slowly disappeared under the sand and knew, with every fiber of his being and thread of his heart, that he wouldn't allow for Pippin to be buried among the tombs of Kings alone without a friend to spend the lonely nights of eternity alongside him. 

While the crowd surrounding the fresh mound thinned and went back to their homes, Merry remained motionless at the tomb. When all others, even Frodo and Sam, had left, Merry stood alone and continued to stare at Pippin's grave. Memories flooded back to him. He thought back to the last glimpse he had of Pippin, a small boy in an army of giants, slowly disappearing out of sight and marching to his death. Merry knew then that he'd never see his cousin again. Deep in his heart somehow, he knew. At last he fell to his knees over the soft, fresh dirt and cried the remaining tears he held in his heart.

"I'll come back, Pippin," he said between the sobs, "I swear it. I'll be back some day, my friend, and when I do return, I shall never leave you again!"

After some time, the last of Merry's sobs had subsided and he curled up on the ground, his body shivering in the chill of the night and chill of his distress. He remained there until Ioreth came and collected him, half-asleep, in her arms and carried him back to the Houses of Healing, where he was finally able to drift off into an uneasy, yet restful, sleep.

TBC


	8. Chapter Seven: The Spreading of Fire

The Prince Demised 

Chapter Seven: The Spreading of Fire

**November 1, 1419******

"Do try and be happy, Merry," Frodo smiled warmly at his cousin in the growing light of dawn that had begun to creep across the trees of the Old Forest. It somehow seemed much less threatening to Frodo than before; it was tamer in a way. "It'll do your heart good to see the Shire again."

Merry looked up from the ground to face Frodo. He turned his eyes to the West and sighed. "I know, Frodo. I'm happy to be going back to the Shire, only…"

"Only it won't be the same." Frodo finished his thought. "Not without Pippin."

Merry nodded solemnly and turned to Frodo. "It's so odd; him not being here to see it again, I mean. It's all he wanted, Frodo," Merry felt something catch in his throat and hoped no one noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes. "It's all we talked about usually: coming back home." 

He turned his gaze to the ground and closed his eyes against the feeling of pain. He felt a reassuring hand on his back and he turned to face Frodo's concerned eyes with a sad smile. "I'm alright, Frodo. I've had my time to grieve; now it's high time I learn to move on with my life."

"When you're ready, Merry," Frodo returned Merry's small smile. "Only when you're ready."

Sam lifted his pack onto Bill and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. He patted the pony's muzzle absentmindedly as he stared off in the direction of the Buckland Gate. 

"It all looks a bit different in the light, don't it?" he said in a conversational tone.

Frodo and Merry stood and turned to the direction Sam nodded in. Strange clouds overhung much of the horizon, and there seemed to be a threatening mist rising from the land.

"You're right, Sam." Frodo said. "And there seems to be something a bit off by the air here. I don't remember fog ever hanging over the land quite like that." He shrugged. "But maybe we've just been off for too long and seen too many things."

"Is it fog?" Merry mounted Stybba and squinted in the faint light towards the West. "Or is it smoke?"

"Neither belong in the Shire, if you ask me." Sam shook his head. "There's something wrong."

**November 3, 1419******

Merry held his sword high and watched the ruffians run from its glittering blade. He turned to Sam and Frodo beside him with a fire in his eyes. In the short time they'd been in this dismal place, his eyes have wandered to the land that was the beautiful Tuckborough, Pippin's home, and the sight of it now filled him with rage. 

"We'll raise the Shire." His voice was strong and his tone final. "I'll ride to Tuckborough and Buckland and bring back an army." He swung himself onto his pony and turned it sharply.

Frodo nodded, slightly worried about the look on his cousin's face, and gripped the reigns of his pony. "Watch your step, Merry. And keep your head!" He called after Merry as Stybba galloped off into the distance.

The ringing of the Horn of Rohan echoed as far as the Misty Mountains and resonated with the strong sounds of valiance and determination. Hobbits poured out of their homes and onto the street to gape at the form that rode by in a blur, looking tall and heroic on his pony. Merry spotted one of his cousins and pulled Stybba to a halt.

"Berilac!" Merry called at the dazed looking Hobbit. "Don't stare at me like you don't know me, you fool! Do you remember the name Merry Brandybuck at all or has your Chief robbed you of your memory as well as your freedom? Now take one of your ponies and ride to Buckland. Raise notice with the Brandybucks and tell them to prepare for the battle of the Shire. Bring them out here and wait for me to return with the Tooks." 

He looked at the blank expression on the Hobbit's face. "Can you handle that, Berilac?"

Berilac gulped before nodding quickly and rushing to the nearest house to ask for a pony. Merry dug his heels into his stead and was off again, riding to Tuckborough as fast as Stybba would take him.

The Tooks rose instantly at the sound of the great horn and ran from their holes to see what the fuss was about. Gasps left their lips as a taller and greatly changed Merry than the young lad they'd known before stood before them, a strange look across his face and his eyes alight with determination. 

"My dear Tooks!" His voice rang loud and clear, yet shook slightly with anticipation, and the whispering of the hobbits ceased immediately. "Many of you may recognize me as Merry Brandybuck, your cousin and friend that set out with Pippin Took, son of the Took and Thain, those long months ago. Two set out from Buckland and Tuckborough, yet one stands alone before you now." Small gasps from the hobbit women could be heard as the Tooks tried to comprehend what this news could mean. 

"We traveled through many dangers and survived many fights, yet yours and mine own worst fears have come true and Pippin is never coming back." Merry's eyes glistened in the torchlight and his voice shook slightly before returning to its former strength. "And now I have returned to find the enemy has once again tried to overtake the Took family! We will not allow it! The enemy is in your homes, and it is the same enemy that killed your brother, your son, and my cousin!" The intense fire in Merry's eyes seemed to spread across the field of hobbits before him. "The enemy has already murdered one Took, and they all must pay! Grab your ponies now and follow me to teach them a lesson they won't soon forget!"

A roar rose up in response to Merry's speech as Took lads ran to their stables and grabbed the reins of their fastest ponies. They armed themselves with pans and gardening tools and rode out to surround Merry, who turned and ordered his pony on. Though loud and strong, his Horn just barely drifted over the roar of the Tooks and beating of the pony hooves behind him as the group rode off to Bag End to avenge their loss.

TBC


	9. Chapter Eight: And Leaves of Gold There ...

[A/N] Since the last chapter was so short, I decided to post the next chapter in the same week. Thank you for reading and thank you even more for the reviews. [end A/N]

The Prince Demised

Chapter Eight: And Leaves of Gold There Grew

**March 15, 1421******

Merry examined himself in the mirror of his bedroom. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach and he swallowed to dampen his dry throat. A light knock on the door echoed through the silent room. Merry turned to the door to respond. 

"Come in," he said in a voice that shook slightly and betrayed his nerves.

The door steadily opened as Frodo stepped into the room. He smiled and closed the door softly behind him. "How do you feel, Merry?" He asked as he walked up to his cousin. 

Merry gave a soft laugh and turned back to the mirror. "Frightfully nervous. And you?" A small smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Frodo's smile widened. "The nerves are there to remind you that you care."

"If I cared any more, I'd be sick all over the floor." Merry replied with a grunt.

Frodo laughed and reached out to straighten the leaf brooch that fastened the Elvish cloak around Merry's neck. "You look great." He gave Merry an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "And you'll be just fine. No husband has died on his wedding day yet."

Merry managed a small smile. "It would be just my luck to be the first."

Frodo let out a light laugh and shook his head. "What are we going to do with you, Merry?" He gave his cousin one last encouraging smile and a light squeeze on the shoulder before he turned towards the exit. He paused at the doorway and looked back, suddenly noticing a strange, hauntingly familiar shadow across Merry's face. 

Merry was absentmindedly tracing the pattern of his leaf brooch with his index finger and staring blankly into the looking glass. Out of the corner of his eye and in the reflection of the mirror, Merry could see Frodo stop and turn to face him, now standing silently behind him at the door. Merry let out a sigh, dropped his arms, and lowered his head; he waited for his cousin to break the silence. 

"Merry?" Frodo's voice rang with concern; he took a step closer to Merry and held his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. 

Merry paused before he looked away and out the window to a small mound he had made upon his return to Buckland after the Journey. It was his honorary grave for Pippin; he buried in the mound small trinkets from their childhood. The grave was dug beside their favorite apple tree and he visited it regularly. 

The tree itself was burned and cut down during the scouring of the Shire, and all that remained was a torched stump. It mattered not; Merry would never forget that tree and the many hours he and Pippin spent its branches, eating the sweet apples, soaking in the sun, and avoiding house chores. The early afternoon sun broke through the thin layer of clouds and its light reflected off Merry's glassy eyes. 

"I wish Pippin was here to see this," he finally said. He shook his head. "I just wish he could be here to help me celebrate the day. It would make it so much more special."

Frodo sighed sadly; he was afraid this would happen. "I know it would, Merry." He turned his own eyes to the modest little mound beside the despondent remains of the apple tree. "But you know…" A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "Pippin wouldn't miss your big day for the Shire, and all the ale in it."

Merry stood silent for a moment before he turned to face Frodo. He wasn't smiling, but the shadow had lifted off his face like the fleeing of fog from a meadow before the late morning sun. As he considered the thought, a faint smile appeared on his face. 

"You know what, Frodo? I think you're right." His smile faltered slightly, "Part of me feels as though… he never really left."

Frodo nodded. "I know the feeling," he smiled warmly at his cousin and he reached once again for the door handle. "Do you need anything?" he asked.

Merry shook his head and turned back to his mirror. "No, thank you, Frodo." He watched the reflection of the door shutting gently behind the Hobbit before he went back to looking himself over.

Frodo smiled in the warmth of the sun as he emerged from the large hobbit hole. He looked around the small yard and at Merry's closest friends and many family members, all of whom were mingling with Estella's relatives. The bride herself was in another room inside, most likely putting up her hair or getting into her dress or whatever it was a bride does before her wedding. A small band of Tooks had taken a liking to instruments earlier on in their lives, and now served as live music. Frodo spotted Sam and Rosie and walked over to join them.

"How's he holdin' up?" Sam asked with a knowing smile as Frodo approached. Memories of his own wedding filled his mind; he spent most of the night before reclined on the couch in Bag End by Frodo, trying not to be sick from the nerves in his stomach.

Frodo laughed. "Better than you were, Sam," Sam blushed and lowered his head, "but he's still feeling the nerves. He'll be fine." Frodo closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "You did a wonderful job with the flowers," Frodo said when he opened his eyes on the gardener. "They're beautiful."

Sam blushed again. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo. I love what I do."

"And it shows." Frodo said before he smiled warmly at his friend's wife. "Hullo, Rosie. How are you and Elanor?"

Rosie smiled lovingly at the small bundle in her arms and then at Frodo. "We're both doing wonderfully, Frodo dear, and how was your night in Buckland?"

Frodo considered the question for a minute before responding. "Quite odd in a way, but well enjoyed." He had spent the night in Buckland with the other groomsmen to help Merry celebrate his last night of being a bachelor. Sam would have joined them, but had a newborn baby in the family and thought it best for everyone's well being if he just spent the night in the inn with Rose and Elanor instead. A sharp headache almost made Frodo wish he'd done the same. 

The voices of the Hobbits gathered around the hole began to hush and Frodo turned to see a very pale, but very happy, Merry emerge from the hole. He slowly walked down the aisle and took his place at the rose-covered altar. Frodo smiled at Sam and motioned to the great arch. "We'd best head for the altar;" he said, "looks like Merry's ready to begin."

The wedding and reception carried on as one usually does in the Shire: many happy tears, many heartfelt toasts, and many a jolly laugh. Estella looked beautiful, and Merry's color slowly returned to his cheeks as the ceremony and reception continued, but Frodo could still catch a small shimmer of sadness still hiding in his eyes whenever the sunlight hit them in just the right way. 

Sam rocked a yawning Elanor in his arms and looked around him. "I think I'll take Elanor 'round to the altar, Rose." He lifted the small babe gently and kissed his wife on the cheek. "I think she'd like all the flowers as is over there."

Rosie smiled and nodded. "Alright, Sam. Just be careful and watch her head."

Sam nodded and smiled at his daughter as he carried her over down the aisle and to the altar. "Someday we'll be making this same walk, little one," he said to her softly. "Though try not to make that day come too soon." Elanor let out a little sigh and Sam laughed. He stopped at the vines that wrapped around the altar and lifted one of the roses so she could see it.

"This is called a rose, love. It's almost as beautiful as another Rose we know." Sam smiled as Elanor reached out with her tiny hand and took hold of one of the vibrant red petals. The flower bent towards the baby slightly, but the babe couldn't muster enough force to separate the petal from its place on the flower. She let it go and gave another yawn.

Sam smiled at the yawning baby. He bounced her on his hip, looked down to the ground below them, and gasped. "Merry! Mr. Frodo!" He called out loudly. "Come quick!"

Within moments the entire wedding party and Rose were at Sam's side, with the rest of the guests close in tow. 

"What is it, Sam?" Frodo panted. "What's happened?"

Sam motioned to the ground by the altar and handed the now sleeping Elanor to his wife. "It wasn't here this morning, Merry, I'm sure of it. I don't know how it could have got here."

Merry gasped as his eyes met with a small, silver sapling that emerged from the dark soil. He knelt and cupped his hand gently around the fragile branches and leaves that glittered brilliantly in the sun. No such tree had ever grown in the Shire, or anywhere else for that matter; only in one place did the silver tree take root: Gondor. 

Tears of joy filled Merry's eyes and he felt a hand on his shoulder as Frodo bent beside him. "See, Merry?" Frodo smiled at the small tree. "I told you Pippin wouldn't miss your wedding for anything."

Merry wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled. "I suppose I have his blessing then." 

Frodo nodded and smiled. "But then again, you always had it." 

"I know, Frodo," Merry responded. "I know." He choked as more tears brimmed in his eyes. He wiped them quickly and rose to his feet and took Estella's hand in his own. He smiled lovingly at her and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "And may he forever watch over my new family." He squeezed her hand and kissed her lovingly on the cheek. Everything was finally going to be alright.

TBC


	10. Chapter Nine: Spring After Winter

The Prince Demised

Chapter Nine: Spring After Winter

**March 21, 1433******

Merry lay across the aged stump and watched the clouds drifting by over his head. The large branches of the great silver tree shielded his eyes from the sun and the wind whistled as it blew through its many leaves. The tree had grown and flourished beautifully over the past 12 years, as had Merry and Estella's marriage, and all products resulting from it. Merry closed his eyes and smiled as the warm sun shown on his chest and the fragrant air ruffled his curly hair. 

"Da?" Merry opened his eyes and sat up to smile at the little owner of the little voice that woke him from his daydreaming. His son stood before him, two months short of 11 and already almost 2 and three-quarters feet tall. His unruly hair blew around his face and into his bright, blue-green eyes. "Mummy said you wanted to talk to me."

Merry reached out to the small boy. "C'mere, little Pip. Let me tell you a story." Young Peregrin Brandybuck ran into his father's arms and allowed himself to be picked up and set on the older hobbit's knee. Pip pushed the hair away from his eyes and forehead and looked up at the gigantic tree that hovered over them. 

Merry smiled and also looked up. "You like this tree, don't you, Pip?" he asked.

The lad nodded.

"Have I ever told you the story about this tree?"

Curls bounced as the lad shook his head.

"What do you know about this tree, Pip?"

Little Pippin looked back down at his hands. He drew a breath and responded, "Mummy says it's a special tree."

Merry smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "Mummy's absolutely right; it is a special tree. Do you know why it's special?" 

Pip looked at his father with curiosity shining in his eyes and shook his head. "Is that what you want to tell me?"

"It's one of the things, yes. This tree," Merry pointed up to the tall canopy of branches above him, "sprouted the day your mother and I were married."

Pip nodded his head and looked at the bark of the tree more closely. He scrunched his nose and asked, "Why's it that color?"

Merry flicked the lad's nose lightly. "Good question, Pip. It's that color because some of the trees in Gondor are that color: a beautiful silver."

The boy cocked his head and thought for a moment. "But this isn't Gondor…?" he said slowly, not completely sure if he was right.

"You're right, Pip, it's not. But it grew out of the spirit and memory of a dear friend of mine who served Gondor."

"Strider?" Pippin perked up; he was quite fond of his father's stories about kings, elves, and dwarves and liked to hear them often.

Merry shook his head. "Good guess, but no. This friend was dearer to me, and I can no longer visit him like I can with Strider, not even if I were to walk all the way to the country of Gondor."

"Why not?"

Merry sighed. "He's no longer in Middle Earth."

"Oh, did he leave like Uncle Frodo did?" Pip asked.

"Well, not exactly, Pippin; he passed away." Merry saw the confused expression on his son's face and sighed. "He's dead." Merry grimaced; he still hated to use that word when he talked about his cousin.

"Oh…" Pip nodded slowly in comprehension and frowned at his Da's change of expression. He wondered whether or not it would be proper (as his mother would put it) to ask more, but he couldn't hold back. "Who was he?"

Merry paused and turned to little Pip. "Do you remember who I said you were named after?"

Pip thought for a moment and recited, "Your favorite cousin and best friend." He smiled widely and eager filled his eyes. "Was he a hero? What was he like? How did he die?"

Merry smiled at the lad's familiar eagerness; his namesake shared the same energy. "Be patient, Pip! You'll get your answers in due time. My favorite cousin and best friend's name was, obviously, Peregrin Took—"

"Like me! Except… I'm not a Took." Pip cut in.

Merry nodded. "Right, like you. Well, when I was much, much, much, much younger and more foolish than I am today, I set out on a quest with Mayor Samwise, Uncle Frodo, and Pippin. You have plenty of time to hear all about the details of the quest, and I've already told you some of it, but I want to tell you another part of the tale."

"The part about Pippin, right?" Little Pip chimed in.

Merry smiled warmly. "Can't fool you, can I, son?" He laughed as Pip shook his head vigorously, which greatly disturbed the butterfly that was peacefully resting on top of his curls. 

"Well, lad, Pippin and I stuck together for the majority of the quest. We went through fears and dangers that I won't tell you now on account of how very beautiful it is outside today and how very dark the tales would be, but I'll instead save them for a rainy day when you're much older than you are now." Pip let out a small pout at this and Merry continued. "Once or twice we were separated, and once or twice we found each other again later on, until the time for battle came."

Pip's jaw dropped. "You were in a battle, Da? A real one, with Men and Elves and Dwarves and Eagles and Wizards?"

Merry smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, Pip my lad, I was injured several days before for other reasons I'll also save for another day and was in no shape to go into battle." Merry let out a small sigh. "But Pippin was."

"What happened?" Pippin's eyes shone with worry and eagerness. Though he had always been told his father's favorite cousin had died long before he was born, he hoped Merry would tell him the Took made it back home safely and can still be seen walking into the Green Dragon from time to time.

Merry looked into his son's eyes and hoped his own didn't hold the shadow that usually engulfed them when he thought about the loss of his cousin. "He died." He gave little Pip a sad smile and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on his forehead.

Pippin looked down at the ground sadly. He thought for a moment and had a sudden idea. "When did he die?"

"The 25th of March in the year 1419." Merry recited without needing a pause for thought. He knew that day as well as he knew his own birthday.

"Is that why you're always sad that day and Mummy says I shouldn't bother you in your study b'cause you want to be left alone? Is it because that was the day Pippin died?"

"It is." Merry gave his son a small smile. "And it was very clever of you to put that together."

Pip smiled widely and stuck his chest out proudly. He paused for a moment before asking, "Could you tell me more about Pippin?"

Merry returned the smile. "Of course I can, Pip; I'd absolutely love to." 

And for the remainder of the day (pausing shortly for meals, of course), Merry shared story after story of foolish pranks on family members, trips to Farmer Maggot's crops, lazy afternoons in the old apple tree ("the same apple tree that once stood right where we sit now and whose stump we're using as a chair"), and wild nights at the Green Dragon that he had spent with his cousin before the Journey began. As the sun began its decent into the Western sky, Estella called the two in for dinner. She stood at the door and waited for her husband to enter the house. She gently passed their baby daughter, Éowyn, into her father's arms. Merry smiled down at the bundle and rubbed his thumb softly against her rosy cheek. The babe reached up and wrapped her tiny hand around his finger. 

Estella smiled sweetly. "So, how did it go?" She looked over at their son, who had busied himself in setting the table. 

Merry gave a soft sigh of relief. "Wonderfully. That's one remarkable son we've got; he gets his impeccable shrewdness from his mother, of course." He smiled playfully.

Estella returned the gesture, "And his foolish, yet strangely charming, personality could come from none other than his father." She kissed her husband softly and began walking towards the kitchen. "Dinner will be out in a minute," she called over the clanging of pots and pans.

"Thank you, love." Merry answered back. He turned to the small ball of flesh that was now sucking on his thumb and laughed. "You're supposed to suck your own thumb, you silly thing, not mine!" Éowyn let out a small burp and Merry laughed and smiled warmly at his daughter. "Pippin would've loved you to pieces, just as I do." He walked over to the couch and sat down slowly, feeling his muscles gratefully sink into the softness of the cushions. 

Merry looked down at the fidgeting babe in his arms. Éowyn had removed his finger from her mouth and now her eyes sluggishly examined the room around her. Merry chuckled and stood up slowly. He walked to the opposite wall and pointed to a framed map that hung above the side table that held the brilliant Horn of Rohan. 

"Your Uncle Frodo gave us that," he explained to the girl with a smile. "One of old Bilbo's finest maps, he said."

Éowyn looked up to where her father was pointing and sucked her fingers thoughtfully.

Merry leaned forward and touched his finger to a small area in the Western half of the map. "This is where we are." He smiled at Éowyn. "In the Shire."

The child took her hand out of her mouth and reached it toward the place where her father's finger was. Merry laughed softly, gently took his daughter's hand, and with it touched the area labeled 'SHIRE'. 

"And over here," he slowly guided her hand further east, "is Rivendell and the House of Elrond." After a short pause at Rivendell, Éowyn's hand continued her steady travel to the southeast. "Followed by Rohan." He smiled down at the yawning baby. "This where the first Éowyn is from; this is where my pretty horn is from."

Éowyn slowly brought her other hand into her mouth and blinked at the map.

The hand continued south and east. "And finally, at the end of the journey," Merry gently slowed the hand to a stop, "Gondor." He looked down at Éowyn and let her hand rest back on her chest. "That's where your Uncle Pippin is." He looked back up at the spot marked 'GONDOR' in bold lettering and added softly, "And that's where I'm headed."

"Merry, dinner." Estella's soft voice drifted from the kitchen. 

"Coming!" Merry kissed Éowyn's pink forehead and carried her into the dinning room for the 5th meal of the day.

TBC


	11. Chapter Ten: I Sit Beside the Fire and T...

The Prince Demised

Chapter Ten: I Sit Beside the Fire and Think…

**October 24, 1482******

Merry walked slowly through the dark bar as he headed for the table nearest the hearth that he and Sam would meet at periodically, usually when they both had the time to do so. They would usually contact one another and set the day and time in advance, but this instance was different. Sam had done all the planning, and Merry received a note from his friend that was more in the nature of a summons than of an invitation. Whatever Sam had on his mind, it was important and couldn't wait.

As the familiar table grew closer, Merry could begin to see a dark form bending over the wooden surface, his lightly aged hands rocking a full glass of ale steadily. He seemed to be in deep concentration, a kind of trance. Merry slowed as he drew nearer, not wanting to disturb the retired mayor's train of thought. 

Sam sensed his friend's presence and he slowly looked up to face him. He began to stand, but Merry held up a hand to stop him. 

"No, my good friend," he laughed lightly as he drew his chair back and seated himself. "No need to stand on my account."

Sam returned Merry's smile and nodded. "As you wish." 

A moment of silence passed between them and Merry took hold of the glass of ale that was waiting for him to arrive. He took a deep drink of the golden liquid and savored the taste thoughtfully before swallowing. He decided it would be best for him to begin a general conversation; Sam wouldn't say his mind for awhile yet, not until they had talked of other things.

"How are things fairing in Hobbiton?" Merry smiled at Sam and the old gardener lowered his glass from his lips and rested it on the table. 

"Going quite well; the new Mayor has been almost completely broken in. His mind is still in fair shape as far as I can tell, which is always a good sign." Sam laughed and shook his head. "I've been a bit harder on him than I had planned to be."

Merry smiled and nodded. "And your other children? How is Elanor's marriage treating her?"

"Quite well; as far as I can see, at least." Sam frowned and shook his head. "But there seems to be no hope for dear Goldilocks."

"Goldilocks?" Merry pictured the small lass with bright, golden curls that bounced free of the tight braids her mother would so painstakingly make. "Has she still not found a rightful suitor?"

Sam leaned in to the table and shook his head. "She's been of marrying age for years now, yet she's had her eyes on no one since her brush with that Goodbody from the East Farthing, and that was in her middle tweens! I just worry about her is all. I only want for her to be happy."

Merry thoughtfully tapped the wooden surface of the table. "Well, Sam, not everyone finds the perfect sole mate at the same time. I wouldn't worry about it. After all, as the saying goes: 'There's someone out there for everyone.'"

Sam let out a sigh as Merry spoke the well-known phrase his mother would often utter when his Gaffer grew frustrated with Daisy's late marriage. It was true for Daisy, she wed while Sam was gone, but his thoughts turned to poor old Bilbo and Mister Frodo. He raised his eyes to meet Merry's and gave him a sad smile. "If only that were true." He lifted the mug of ale to his lips and finished the remaining draught.

Merry shrugged. "You may be surprised; give the lass time."

Sam frowned again. "That's the problem now, Merry; I don't think I have the time." 

The smile faded from Merry's face. "Why, Sam, you can't mean—"

Sam shook his head. "No, Merry, I'm not planning on dying any time too soon, but I've been planning something of another nature. And that's why I've asked for your confidence."

Merry nodded slowly. "Tell me what you can, Sam. I'm listening."

Sam drew a breath and leaned once again against the old wooden table. "As you know, it's been awhile since dear Mister Frodo left, and as you can imagine, it's been eating away at me since that great ship disappeared into the deep mist those long years ago." A hint of old but unforgotten pain stirred in Sam's eyes and they shone in the dancing light of the fire. 

Sam sniffed casually and turned to Merry. "I know that you're the only one here that can really understand what a torture the past years have been; you're the only one that knows how it feels to be separated from one you loved so much and saw so many dangers with."

Merry lowered his gaze to his nearly drained mug of ale as flashes his and Pippin's adventures passed before his eyes. He felt the light sting of a tear forming in his eye and he slowly nodded his head. "I understand, Sam. I know how you feel."

He heard Sam draw a slow and rugged breath. "And with Rosie gone now and most of my children married off, it's given me a lot of time to do some thinking. Since you know what kind of things must run through my mind on those days in March and October when I know Mr. Frodo would start to feel the pains from the Journey then you will also understand why I've decided to do what I plan to do—"

Merry quickly raised his eyes to meet his friend's. He spoke before Sam had a chance to, "You're leaving." It wasn't a question; it was a stated fact. 

Sam sat in stunned silence and started Merry. 'How did he know?'

"You're leaving the Shire," Merry continued in the silence, "and you're going to the Grey Havens, for Frodo." 

After a few more seconds of watching Sam shift nervously in his seat, Merry let out a clear laugh. "Oh, come now, Sam. You can't be so surprised. I know the state of your mind; you said so yourself." His smile slowly changed to a frown. "You're not the only one that's thought of taking such actions. I, however, cannot find what I seek as easily as you can. But I will seek it nonetheless."

Sam shook his head to clear his thoughts. "You're leaving, too? But, Merry, where could you go? Not to the Grey Havens?"

Merry laughed. "No, Sam, I could not travel the same path as you; I was not a Ringbearer. Yet I left something behind when we returned to the Shire, and I must follow my own path to find it again."

"Gondor." Sam whispered as the thought finally came to him. 

Merry nodded. 

"But, Merry, what could you hope to find there?" Sam hated to say what he was saying, but he felt that Merry needed to hear it. "Beggin' your pardon, Merry, but all you could hope to find is a grave. And besides, you weren't ready to see the White City again when Elanor, Rose and I went to see Strider in '42, what makes you so sure you'll be able to see it now?"

"I'll be ready, Sam, you can trust to that. I couldn't leave with you in 1442 simply because of Estella and the children. Now that I'm also alone in my old hobbit hole and young Pip has taken up the duties as Master of Buckland, I've no reason to delay my passing in Gondor any longer." 

This statement took Sam off guard and he repeated for clarification, "Your '_passing in Gondor'? Why, Merry, what do you mean?"_

Merry smiled grimly at his old friend. "Sam, when you get down to it, we're both leaving for a common purpose: to find ourselves and eventually die where our lost companions passed. Your mission is only different in the way that Frodo may still be alive when you arrive. 

"But if he isn't, at least you'll be closer to him in the lands beyond the White Tower than you are here, and you can spend eternity at his side in a grave. In the same way, I'll be closer to Pippin in the White City than I am here, and I'll be able to die where I can feel closest to him." Merry sighed. "It's not the happiest thing to think about, and not a topic of choice to discuss over half a pint in the Green Dragon, but then again reality outside the Shire usually isn't."

Sam nodded in solemn understanding. "How long before you plan on leaving?"

Merry shrugged. "Not long, but not immediately."

The bartender placed two new mugs on the table, and Sam watched Merry slowly reach out and draw the mug to him. Merry had changed; Sam saw it in his downcast eyes and heard it in his shaky voice. His heart was so frail after Pippin's death, and it didn't take much to break it anymore. They had all changed, of course, during the Journey. One can't leave on such an extraordinary experience and come back the same hobbit; it wasn't possible. But this change he saw in Merry was something new, something he hadn't sensed in the hobbit before. 

Sam had, however, had sensed it in another. The shadows that crept across Merry's face had once touched the cheeks of his master in the long months before his departure for the Grey Havens. In his eyes were similar signs of the same pained and anguished tears he'd cried for too long. Sam slowly drew his mug up to his lips and lowered it, thoughtfully savoring the taste and studying Merry. 

What was it that beckoned the shadows of despair to linger on Merry's once rosy cheeks? Sam thought back to the events of the past years. He remembered the gradually increasing tension he saw between Merry and Estella as little Pip (who wasn't so little anymore) entered his mid tweens. Sam wasn't sure exactly what caused it: whether it was Merry's strange behavior and late night trips to the pub, or Estella's suddenly cold, humorless personality. Perhaps it was both, or one resulted in the other. In any case, it began to slowly weaken the marriage, but Sam had hope when they were brought back together by Estella's third pregnancy, their second son.

It was a miscarriage. Such a loss could drive the strongest of men to insanity, and it completely shattered Merry's already despairing heart. Tears stung in Sam's eyes as he remembered the look of shock and anguish on Merry's face when the Healer told him the news. Sam couldn't begin to imagine what was going through Merry's head, what it must have felt like to lose his child before he even knew him and showed him the world he was bringing him into. Sam shuddered at the thought and silently thanked the Lady that his children had all made it safely into the world. 

Sam cringed at the memory of the years that followed. The pain of the loss of their unborn son was too sharp for Merry and Estella to endure. It quickly pulled them away from each other and the family apart; they could no longer live with one another. What small hope the two had in saving their marriage was gone.  So, Estella and the children moved out. Merry would have moved himself, but he was Master of Buckland and had business to attend to at Brandy Hall. 

Sam remembered the night after Estella left. He'd gotten a sharp knock on his door at Bag End and opened it to find Merry standing on his doorstep, looking lost and confused. Before Sam could say anything, Merry looked up at him with eyes shining with tears and stopped the words before they could form in Sam's throat.

"We were going to name him 'Sam'," he said with tears streaming down his stained cheeks. He sobbed into Sam's shoulder through most of that night.

Merry missed his children terribly after their move. They would always come by, of course, and Pip was there as often as he could be, but it wasn't the same to Merry. Nothing was the same to him anymore. 

Merry and Estella lived separated for some time, but slowly began to see more and more of each other again. Merry had told Sam that the two could begin to talk about their loss together, which was a great improvement from the acknowledging nods that they had once used to communicate. 

Within the past year, Estella had passed away. Not long before her, Rosie had also passed. Sam and Merry spent sleepless nights talking about the Good Years in front of the Bag End fireplace, the embers in the hearth warming the tears on their cheeks and giving light to the darkness in their hearts. 

It was darkening in the bar now and the fire beside them had begun to die out. Sam thought back to the purpose of this meeting. He had planned to leave for the Grey Havens by the coming of winter, but that was before he knew Merry's plans for departure. He knew in his heart he couldn't leave Merry alone now, not after all the two had gone through since their return to the Shire. He'd have to wait, and wait was what he would do. He'd wait to see Merry off, wait to watch him begin his long ride to Gondor, wait to give him his last farewell, and then he'd make his own departure. 

Sam tipped the mug back and drained the remaining ale out of it. As he set it on the table, Merry pushed back his chair and rose slowly. Sam looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. 

"Goin' off home?" he asked.

"Eventually, yes." Merry watched as Sam stood and began walking with him towards the large, heavy door in the front of the pub. Merry reached out and took his cloak from its peg on the wall. "I'll try and catch a carriage to take me back to Buckland." He gave a small shrug. "Then I might fancy a walk before I get to sleep."

Sam pulled his own cloak around him and opened the door for Merry to step through. "I'd best be off, too. I've left some carrots out that I didn't have time to store properly." He closed the door behind them. 

Merry smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Sam." He turned and stepped onto the road. 

Sam smiled and nodded. "And you, Merry." He turned and started off in the opposite direction, feeling uplifted at the thought of the warm fire that was waiting for him to return to Bag End.

TBC


	12. Chapter Eleven: Farewell, My Friend

A/N: Alas that all things must come to an end. I want to take a moment now to thank all my wonderful, beautiful, talented reviewers and readers who have take the time to read my story and even give me a little encouragement through their reviews. I love you all sooo much, and cannot thank you enough. I really do hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing and posting it. It's very sad for me to be putting out the last chapter, but I knew this day would come. Thank you all again from the bottom of my heart; you've really made the past 8 months of writing worth the effort. Please enjoy this last installment of my tale. The Prince Demised 

Chapter Eleven: Farewell, My Friend

**September 19, 1484******

A loud pounding on the door startled Sam from his reading and he rose with surprising swiftness from his chair. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he said as a boom of thunder sounded beneath the eager and powerful knocks that came from the other side of the round door. "Be patient!"

He swung open the door and a rather wet and exhausted Merry fell into his living room, panting slightly and grasping something tight in his hand. 

"Merry!" Sam exclaimed. "What in the Shire are you doing here in this kind of weather? Here, let me take that." Sam lifted the dripping cloak off his friend and hung it to dry on a peg by the door. He stepped back and began walking towards the kitchen. "You must be freezing. Would you like tea?"

Merry had caught his breath and was able to respond. "Yes, thank you, Sam. Tea would be wonderful." He began walking towards the old armchair in front of the warm fireplace. "I'm so sorry for barging in like this and all, but I've got some news that couldn't wait."

"That's quite alright, Merry, quite alright. You know you're always welcome here," Sam's faint voice replied from the kitchen. 

Merry put the paper he had been holding into his pocket and warmed his hands in the heat of the fire with a content sigh. He turned and examined the small room in the dim light of the candles; aging books filled aging bookcases, odd trinkets and family heirlooms rested on the tops of forgotten papers, and the dust on old picture frames made the paintings beneath almost impossible to discern from a distance. Merry smiled; the room seemed like it hadn't changed a bit since he saw it last. Even dear old Frodo and Bilbo kept it in the same shape and appearance. 

A large book with red binding that sat on the side table next to the large armchair caught his attention. He recognized it as the Red Book of Westmarch; the one Frodo had given to Sam before his departure for the Grey Havens. The book was open. Merry leaned forward and read off the page: 

_ 'While trying to heal from the pains of my injuries, I've come to one decision: I must leave. I cannot stay here and be a burden to Sam any longer. My wounds are deep and cannot be healed. The Shire is no longer my home. I'm leaving for the Grey Havens, with Bilbo and Gandalf and the Elves. Sam doesn't know it yet. But he will understand; he will join me when he can, but not yet…'_

"Would you like sugar, Merry?" 

Merry started and pulled his eyes away from the book to see Sam staring at him from inside the kitchen. He smiled thankfully and responded, "Sugar would be wonderful, Sam. Thank you."

Sam nodded and dropped a teaspoon of sugar into the dark tea. He placed the two cups on a wooden tray, which he carried out to the living room where his friend was waiting. He handed Merry his cup and sat down in the old armchair, motioning Merry towards the couch. 

"Have a seat, Merry." He smiled warmly and took a sip from his cup. 

Merry smiled gratefully and laughed. "I would, Sam, but I'm afraid I'd get your couch all soaked! Awful weather outside." He shuddered as he remembered the cold pounding rain he traveled through to get to Bag End. Another roll of thunder shook the windowpanes as an affirmation of Merry's observation.

Sam shook his head. "Now, now, Merry, don't you worry about nothing. Water dries, does it not?"

Merry smiled and sat slowly down on the welcoming couch. "I suppose it does."

Sam placed his teacup carefully on the side table next to the Red Book and leaned forward to look at Merry. "Well, Merry?" he asked curiously. "What could possibly posses you to come to Bag End in the freezing rain?"

Merry laughed softly. "Strange weather for the Shire, isn't it? Even for this time of year, the rain is never this strong. Or this cold. But anyway, on to what I came to tell you: I received a letter earlier this week."

"Oh?" Sam cocked his head in interest. "What sort of letter was it?"

Merry reached into his pocket and drew out the crumpled piece of parchment. Its binding was accented with a rich gold and red pattern, and the hand that the lettering was written in was elegant and profound. It was obviously Very Important, or at least came from someone who was. 

Merry unfolded the creases gently and cleared his throat. 

"_Master Holdwine," he read aloud:_

"_I am writing to you on behalf of Lord Éomer, son of Éomond and King of Rohan, who greatly requests your presence in the royal city of __Edoras__ as soon as you are able to arrive. The King has fallen ill and wishes for you to come and see him so he may bid you his final farewells before his passing. Please come in haste as the amount of days the King has left is unknown, yet his chances of surviving much longer are doubtful." _

Merry began folding the letter back up and shook his head. "And it just goes on with signatures and 'respectfully yours' from there." He shoved the parchment back into his pocket and sighed. 

Sam leaned against the back of his chair and frowned as he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together thoughtfully. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath; he knew what this was leading up to. 

"And you're leaving." 

Sam opened his eyes to see Merry nod. 

"How soon?" 

"Tonight."

"Tonight?!" Sam's outburst caused Merry to jump slightly. "Merry, why such haste? And in this weather?" A loud roll of thunder shook the windows of Bag End. Sam motioned outside to emphasize the point that was just made. "You'll catch your death 'fore you even reach as far as Bree!" 

"I have to go, Sam!" Merry looked at Sam with pleading desperation. "I won't let him die before I can reach him." 

"Leave now and _you'll die before you can reach him."_

"But, Sam," Merry continued to protest, "I've packed and am ready to leave immediately! Stybba is outside now, under the cover of the think overhanging branches of the mallorn tree just out front. I can't leave him outside all night, and Bag End has no place for proper stabling."

Sam stood, walked to the window, and peered out into the hazy yard. He could see the dark form of the pony as Merry had said, to the side of the road covered by the huge branches of the tree that sprouted out of the top of the hill. It, of course, wasn't the same pony Merry had ridden home from Gondor on, but was a descendant of the same and was given the same name. Sam lowered his head in thought. Stybba was larger than most ponies, after all he'd have to be to carry Merry, but he was still small enough to squeeze into a hobbit hole. 

After the few moments of silence that followed, Sam looked back up at Merry to give him his decision. "You'll not be going nowhere in such weather; I won't let you. Bag End is a large place and Stybba is well disciplined. He will come inside." Merry opened his mouth to protest, but Sam raised his hand to stop him. The tone of his voice changed from demanding to pleading. "Merry, please. Just until the storm lets up."

Merry let out a heavy sigh and rested his aching head against the back of the couch. "Very well, Sam, but only until the storm lets up. The moment the rain stops, I'm off, and I don't care if it's the middle of the night." He turned to look outside where sheets of rain pounded relentlessly against the window. "Which is possible; after all, it's only early evening."

Sam nodded. "Fair enough. Now let's get that pony out of the cold."

Merry stood and followed Sam outside, trying to shield himself and his friend from the large droplets with his already soaked cloak.

~*~

Almost 5 hours had passed, and Merry still had not left. He lay spread out on the couch, his hand lightly stroking Stybba's dark muzzle. Sam shifted in the armchair, stretched, and yawned. He stared at the dying fire in the hearth and wondered whether he should put another log on. He turned his gaze outside and decided it wouldn't be necessary; the rain was gradually slowing to a soft sprinkle. A knot formed in his stomach as he realized what this meant. 

"The rain should stop soon." He said gloomily. Merry slowly raised his eyes up to meet his friend's sad smile. "I guess you'd best get ready to leave."

Merry turned his tired eyes from Sam to the foggy window and saw that the branches of the mallorn and the winding road beyond the small gate were finally visible. He nodded slowly and replied, "I suppose you're right."

He sat up on the couch and stretched his sore muscles. Sam rose and disappeared into the kitchen. Merry watched him vanish and turned to his loyal pony. He rubbed the animal's back and smiled warmly as Stybba rose clumsily to its feet. 

"Well, Stybba," he said as he scratched behind the pony's pointed ear, "are you ready? You'll be making the same journey your dear old dad made all those years ago, except backwards in a way."

"Here you are, I've fixed a little something for you and Stybba while you were sleeping." Sam emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large bag and sporting a nice shade of red on his round cheeks. "It ain't much, I'm afraid, but it'll do for a couple of days, or so I hope, but then again I know how a pony and hobbit like to eat, so there's no guarantee in that."

Merry opened the bag when Sam handed it to him and saw a collection of sandwiches, mushrooms, and carrots, along with a small pot and pan for cooking them in. He looked back up at Sam with a wide smile across his face. "Thank you, Sam. You've already gone through enough trouble on my account tonight; you didn't have to do this."

Sam nodded and the tint on his cheeks deepened. "I know, Merry. But I wanted to." 

The two exchanged warm smiles and Stybba stamped his foot impatiently against the floor. Merry laughed light-heartily and took up the pony's reigns. Sam helped navigate him around the furniture and rug to the large, green door and hesitantly took hold of the smooth knob. Merry retrieved his slightly drier cloak from the peg, clasped the Fellowship broach around his neck, and dropped his arms to his side. 

The wind whistled between the windowpanes and the two stood in silence, both with downcast eyes and sorrowful hearts. 

Sam cleared his throat. "I guess… I guess this is goodbye."

Merry nodded silently, his eyes still fixed on the hairs of his feet.

Sam wiped his eyes quickly with his sleeve and sniffed casually. "Well, Merry, I wish you well…" Sam felt a choke coming on and coughed loudly to cover it. 

Merry looked up and smiled solemnly at his friend. "Dear Sam, you've been a wonderful companion to me these past few years; I doubt I'd have survived them without your support. I don't know what I would have done without you." He placed a grateful hand on Sam's shoulder. "Thank you."

Sam fought the tears that were burning hot in his eyes and smiled. "And you've been a dear friend to me and the one hobbit I knew I could always come to. You would understand all that I could feel and go through, Merry." Sam surprised himself at his words; did he really say all that? He didn't know he had it in him. "Never doubt that you won't be missed dearly."

Merry's watering eyes shone in the flickering of the candles. He looked down and dried the corner of his eyes as he pulled another damp paper out from his shirt pocket and handed it to Sam. 

"If I could ask you for one last favor, Sam," Merry began as Sam flipped the paper over in his brown hands. "Please share this with my son and daughter. It has my final farewells, though I gave them each one earlier when I told them I was leaving, and a detailed explanation of what is to happen with the estate. I'd greatly appreciate it if you could give this to them."

Sam nodded and placed the parcel on bookshelf beside him. "Of course, Merry, I'll call for them tomorrow morning. Or, actually, this morning." He looked up at the high moon and sighed. "You'd best be off."

"Yes, yes. I've a long road ahead of me." Sam opened the door and Merry led Stybba out. He turned back and Sam smiled at him warmly.

"May you rest forever in peace, my dear Brandybuck." 

Merry laughed and nodded. "And may you find all that you search for and more beyond the Grey Havens, Master Samwise."

The two shared a strong, friendly embrace. Merry bent and gave Sam a farewell kiss on his forehead that sent a shiver down his friend's spine; Frodo had done the same before he boarded the white ship to the Valinor. 

Merry slowly turned with a half-saddened, half-relieved sigh. "Well, my friend," he said into Stybba's ear as he led the pony slowly towards the gate and onto the road, "let's begin." 

He paused and silently turned his eyes to behold Bag End for the last time, taking in the sight of the grand hill, beautiful mallorn tree, and bright green door; Sam stood as a dark, motionless silhouette in the doorway. Merry turned his eyes to the road ahead of him and effortlessly mounted the small pony. Stybba shook his mane and slowly stepped out onto the now muddy road. 

Sam stood silently and watched as the pony inched out of sight. Merry never turned back, and Sam didn't expect him to. As the blackness of night slowly engulfed the hobbit and pony, Sam moved back inside and shut the door softly behind him. His heavy feet carried him to the couch, where he gratefully sank into its soft, warm cushions. The fire was no more than a faint light in its own ashes, and the candles in the room were burning low. Sam curled up in the thin comfort of the couch and hugged himself as he wept.

**November 4, 1484******

Merry slowly pulled his chain mail, dagger, belt, and helmet out from his bag and laid them gently on his bed. A cool breeze floated through the open window, sending a chill up his spine.

After several weeks of hard traveling, Merry had finally reached Edoras in late October, and was at King Éomer's side when he passed. Merry had continued his ride to Minas Tirith alongside Éowyn and Faramir, who had both gone to give the king of Rohan their final farewells. The ride was slow and often silent, but not much time had passed before Merry stood before King Elessar at the mithril gates of the White City. The King had passed by the Brandywine long ago, and Merry was able to see him there and introduce his wife and children. Looking back on the King's appearance then, Merry could see how greatly Aragorn had aged. It was surprising to see his white head of hair; Merry had for the longest time seen Strider as being so strong and proud that he was in fact immortal. But he was only a man, and Men are mortal.

"Have I forgotten anything?" Merry puzzled as he looked over the articles that were spread before him. He draped his cloak beside the dagger and began to change into his battle gear; he thought he'd save Strider's men the trouble of having to change him later on. 

Upon Merry's arrival only a day before, he had also noticed that the Lady Arwen seemed no different than when he had last seen her. Still powerful and beautiful, she sat next to the King during the large feast he hosted to celebrate Merry's return. Merry saw many others he recognized, and shared a wonderful talk with Bergil. Beregond had passed earlier that year, but the son was now a strong member of the army of Gondor and was a respectable man in the city. He was huge now; he seemed to no longer be the small friend Merry confided in all those years ago.

He had noticed with slight annoyance the amount of attention the Men of Gondor gave him; they often stared after him as he walked down the dark stone halls. Whispers followed behind him, all concerning this grim and aged cousin of the Prince of Halflings.

Merry fastened the leaf brooch of his cloak around his neck and drew a deep breath. This was it. He took one last look of himself in the mirror and silently walked out of the room. 

After what felt like an agonizingly long walk down the cold and hard stone flooring of the city, Merry felt warm grass beneath his feet again. He could see the mounds before him now; he was almost to the burial area of Rath Dínen. He spotted the mound he had been looking for and dreamt about during the long years since he'd seen it last as they shoveled the dirt over Pippin's tomb. It was now covered with bright green grass and many small flowers that had yet to taste the bitterness of the fast approaching winter. Merry quickened his pace.

He soon was standing over the grave: Pippin's grave. He fell to his knees and dropped his old head. "Well, my old friend, I've come at last." His voice started thin and unsure, but grew in strength as Merry felt a reassuring warmth spread over him like a blanket. 

"In our hearts I know we believed we would die together on that awful quest. Though I was unable to join you in death then, I've come to honor the promise I made to you after they covered you in your grave and had held in my heart since we left for the Journey. I've come to die at your side, dear Pippin, as I had planned to do since we set out from Rivendell." He drew a slow breath and a small sob escaped his throat. "Farewell for only a moment longer, dear cousin, for I will soon be joining you for the rest of forever." 

And with his arm reaching across his heart and his hand lightly grasping the brooch of the Fellowship, the small and weakened hobbit drew his last breath and felt life leave his body. At last, after years of suffering, his heart would be whole and joyous once again. 

~EC

_When the cold of winter comes,_

_Starless night will cover day._

_In the veiling of the sun,_

_We will walk in bitter rain._

_But in dreams, _

_I can hear your name_

_And in dreams, _

_We will meet again._

_When the seas and mountains fall_

_And we come to end of days,_

_In the dark I hear a call;_

_Calling me there, I will go there_

_And back again._


End file.
